Our Little Dream
by Chelsie Dagger
Summary: A stream of consciousness/interior dialogue piece exploring Carson and Mrs. Hughes in the four months between her revelation about Becky and Christmas. Both POV's. SERIES 5 SPOILERS!
1. Perchance to Dream

Charles Carson, butler of Downton Abbey, lay staring at the ceiling of his sparse attic room. It was after two in the morning. The late summer air occasionally stirred the curtains of his tiny window, but the night was otherwise still. Though the children and most of the staff remained at Downton, the house felt empty without the family. They were still away for the grouse and the staff had been granted an early night, but that was little benefit to Mr. Carson. Sleep was not likely to claim him tonight, no matter the hour.

His plans for the future, which had been on such a blissful trajectory of late, had been brought to the ground like a winged bird by a simple revelation; Elsie Hughes had a sister.

She'd prefaced her shocking disclosure by cagily admitting, _'I don't lie, but there are things I don't say.'_

He could not fault her for that. He'd hidden things from her as well. There was never an expectation of full disclosure in their relationship. No, he was not angry with her. The bitterness in his mouth at present was from his disappointment in himself.

How had he not known that Mrs. Hughes had a sister? What kind of friend was he that he hadn't known something so basic? Did anyone else know? Mrs. Patmore? Lady Grantham? _I'll bet Thomas knows; he always seems to know everything about everyone, _Mr. Carson thought ruefully.

_'I'm a pauper,'_ she'd told him.

How had he not noticed her scrimping and saving over the years? Admittedly, hers was not the wardrobe of a pauper, but he knew the answer to that mystery. She was always so well turned out, practically yet elegantly attired with no hint of the vanity to which she held rightful claim. Indeed, he'd once considered speaking to her about misspending her money when he noticed she had several, expensive-looking additions to her wardrobe in a short amount of time.

Luckily, he'd avoided insulting her and getting an earful for his trouble. He'd overheard Mrs. Patmore complimenting Mrs. Hughes' new green coat. The housekeeper had sheepishly explained that she'd received several lightly used items in return for her assistance with the church bring and buy sale while the family was in London for the Season. She confessed to the cook that most of her clothing was from the bring and buys over the years.

He'd always admired her frugality, thinking it one of the finer traits of the Scottish people, but now he saw a purpose behind some of her more eccentric habits. Even when she was the new housemaid, she rarely took the time off she was owed. On the rare occasion when she did bother to take one of the half days, Elsie didn't go shopping or have tea like the other maids. She would take a small picnic from the house kitchen and disappear into the estate grounds for a few hours.

As he lay in the dark reflecting, Charles pictured her meticulously decorated sitting room. He knew the story behind every item; a tea set left by her mother, a silhouette left by her predecessor, curios sent from former subordinates as a token of thanks for her guidance. It now dawned on him that she had not purchased any of the things in her sitting room.

Though she was an avid reader, Elsie Hughes never bought books. She read almost exclusively from the house library. Her personal collection was made up of books which were gifts from Mr. Carson or Lady Grantham. The evidence of her poverty was there if he'd only looked. Knowing that money was so dear made her gift of the frame that had once held Alice's photograph even more significant.

Knowing that she had a sister to support made her health scare even more poignant. Beyond pondering her own fate, how she must have worried about the sister she would leave behind unsupported. As if he needed more evidence of her quiet fortitude. She had faced that fear alone. She had not needed to confide in him, had not needed his comfort or help. He'd never been fool enough to think that she needed him, but it hurt to know it for certain.

Now, he felt a fool for dragging her around to look at properties she knew she could never buy. He'd been oblivious to the torture he was inflicting. How many years had he been oblivious when it came to Mrs. Hughes? He knew that he respected her; had known that almost from the beginning. He knew that he cared for her; almost losing her to that Burns fellow and then cancer had made admitting that unavoidable. Their gentle teasing had always felt natural and innocent; two close friends with widely disparate opinions.

Then she'd come to London and everything had changed. The Season had been more enjoyable than ever. Her presence made Grantham House feel more like home than it ever had before. They'd held hands on the beach. She'd challenged him to live a little. For the first time he hadn't had to pretend that he enjoyed London when he returned to Downton.

Suddenly, he wasn't content to disagree with her, even when she teased him about it. He wanted to always be in agreement with her. He never wanted her to frown because of him or be disappointed in him. He hadn't succeeded. He couldn't be sure if he'd argued with her more of late or if he was just more aware of it. She took it in stride and acted as though she expected no different, but it bothered him like a burr under a saddle.

During the Memorial location debate he'd finally found the courage to tell her how much their disagreeing unsettled him. She'd blushed and joked about needing to check herself in the mirror when he flattered her like that. He might have confessed everything to her in that moment if Barrow hadn't interrupted by announcing Sergeant Willis.

She hadn't exactly sided with him against Mrs. Patmore, but she had respected his conviction of how to rightfully honor Downton's lost heroes. She'd brokered a sort of peace between him and Mrs. Patmore.

The day they'd spent perusing Mrs. Patmore's house had decided everything for him. He'd watched her eyes sparkling as she assessed the property. She was happy for her friend, but Charles could see something behind her gaze. Was it sadness, envy, hope? He couldn't have said. He admitted his own envy to Mrs. Hughes and asked her obliquely about her plans for the future. She'd deflected him easily but the little smile she'd given him planted the seed of an idea in the hard soil of his ponderous mind.

He watched her more closely, spoke to her more openly and was rewarded by a deepening in their friendship. The thought of a shared future beyond Downton grew in his mind from a wish to a surety. Retirement wasn't a frightening prospect to him anymore. His offer to invest in property together had been an impromptu decision but he'd been thinking of it for months. She hadn't said 'yes', but she hadn't said 'no' and her eyes had twinkled at the thought. It was all the encouragement he'd needed to move forward with his plans.

He was so happy, he hadn't noticed her reticence and had ignored the fact that she still had not officially said 'yes.' Finally, he'd bullied her too far. He'd found the perfect property and she'd finally had to let him down gently.

She'd expressed remorse but he suspected that was out of kindness. She'd called it a 'folly' and 'a nice idea.' His chest hurt as he remembered.

_That's not all she said,_ his heart reminded him. He shut his eyes and forced himself to remember tonight's conversation verbatim. He replayed her words in his head.

_'I would have liked to come in with you, I would have…I won't because I can't.'_ Did she really mean that or was she just trying to let him down gently? She wasn't one to lie to spare his feelings. Maybe she was being sincere, but how could he ever know?

_'I wish you very well with your house, Mr. Carson, you've earned it, but there is no place for me in the project.' _ He should have contradicted her right there. The project only existed because of her, she had provided the inspiration, he would provide the capital. He didn't need her money; never had. It wasn't about money. It was about knowing that she'd always be by his side, at Downton or in retirement.

_'I've enjoyed our little dream. I'm the one to blame for stringing you along.'_

His eyes shot open. _'Our little dream.' _Was that what she'd really said? He thought hard. Yes, that's what she'd said; not _your_ little dream or _my_ little dream, but _our_ little dream.

She wasn't just patronizing him when she said she wished she could buy in with him. If circumstances were different, she would have gladly joined him. There was a chance that she wanted the same future he wished for. This thought calmed him. The future was still murky, but less so than it had seemed only a few short minutes ago. He had reason to travel in hope; it wasn't much, but it was enough for now. Sweating slightly in the closeness of his little room, Charles Carson was finally able to drift off to sleep: perchance to dream.

TBC...

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><p><strong>AN I can't help but wonder how their relationship might have changed in the four months between her revelation about Becky and Christmas. Surely, there must have been a few weeks of tension at least before he felt comfortable discussing the house with her again. Obviously they are back on very friendly terms before Christmas and he's able to tell her about the house without any visible awkwardness, but how did they get there?**

**Next Chapter...Elsie's POV.**


	2. Daydreaming

She wasn't avoiding him exactly. The family was due back tomorrow and she had neglected some of her duties while gallivanting around the countryside looking at properties with Mr. Carson. At least that was the excuse she would give if he asked. The truth was that she hadn't neglected anything. She suspected he would know that to be true, but he would not challenge her if she said otherwise. Changing out the electric light bulbs in the guest rooms was hardly a high priority. But she wasn't avoiding him, she just needed some space to think. She hadn't let herself think about it last night, if she had she would never have gotten any sleep.

She'd woken this morning with a general feeling of dread and immediately remembered their discussion the night before. How would he be today? She had wondered. Mrs. Hughes had watched him cautiously at breakfast where he had been civil but unreadable. She had managed to not see him since, though she knew she must face him again at luncheon. She reminded herself that there was no reason to dodge him. He'd been very kind last evening when she told him about Becky. He hadn't been angry with her for not telling him sooner. No, he hadn't been angry, it was much worse than that; he had been hurt.

He had every right to be, she mused as she began to change out the bulbs in the Chinese Room. He was her closest friend at Downton, which meant he was her closest friend in the world. She had kept her most personal secret from him until she'd been forced to confess, but he'd accepted her story and offered sympathy rather than judgment. He hadn't even been put out that she'd strung him along about the house for so long. He'd taken the blame onto himself; berated himself for a lack of sensitivity to her situation, the dear man.

She was not proud of her actions; she had led him to believe she was serious about investing with him. Why had she let it go on so long? Of course, she had enjoyed visiting the sites with him; riding side by side as the bus jostled them together, teasing him when he commented on the distance of one of the houses from the bus stop. Why had she not told him the truth from the beginning? He might still have invited her along; he valued her judgment, after all.

Maybe she'd thought something might change while they were considering properties. Knowing Mr. Carson as she did, she hardly expected him to rush into anything. If he moved with his normal, cautious pace she might not have had to tell him for several years, but this project had energized him. Every time she saw him, he was excited about some new idea he'd had for the enterprise. His enthusiasm had been contagious; drawing her along so that there were times she forgot that her participation in the scheme was impossible.

He'd surprised her by moving so quickly. It was barely a month before he'd shown her the paperwork for the first property. It was woefully undersized for his grand plans, but he insisted she familiarize herself with the details so they had a common point of reference. She was shocked when he scheduled a grand tour of the four most likely properties while the family was away.

How had things progressed so quickly? This was Charles Carson, after all. The man took two years to research a pair of shoes before purchasing. He considered a new fountain pen to be an undertaking requiring months of consideration. She had not anticipated such alacrity from him on a matter as serious as purchasing an investment as important as this.

Was he thinking of retiring soon? Was that his motivation? The thought made her heart cold. She'd long ago accepted that she was stuck at Downton for as long as they would have her, but the prospect was not bleak. The assured presence of her dearest friend made such a fate bearable, even pleasant.

Again she asked herself why she had deceived him. Yes, she thought it would take him longer to reach the point of actually needing money from her but what changes had she hoped for? What had she thought might happen in the meantime? She did not for one second wish any harm to come to Becky. Perhaps if Becky's life were difficult or painful, Elsie might have wished for a release for the both of them, but her sister was a sweet, simple soul living happily by the sea.

Elsie sighed and looked out the window. The bright summer sun on the lawn was an odd contrast to the oppressive red walls of the room. Outside spoke of freedom whereas the closeness of the room felt like a prison; not the harsh, grey prison Anna was currently enduring, but a prison nonetheless. The lawn, once green, was now turning golden. It reminded her of their walk along the short lane that led to the house from Brouncker Road. She'd meant to tell him about Becky that day but when they'd reached the house they were to inspect all thoughts of shame at her deception disappeared.

The house was set back from the road and ideally situated. It was large, but not imposing. There was a quaint, unassuming charm about it. She could tell straight off that it was solidly built with very little need of renovation. She watched him tour the house, smiling at her excitedly when he found the mud room to be just the right size and the kitchen to be in just the right place. She had smiled back in genuine joy. She could see the dream taking shape as he described their imaginary tenants spending their days in the small library or the well-lit parlor or the garden that had grown only slightly wild. She could almost believe that she would be a part of that dream. All she could think about was him, _them_, in this house. It felt so right. She hadn't wanted to lose that feeling immediately and had decided against telling him about Becky.

_Oh, for goodness sake,_ Elsie scolded herself, _just admit it; you know damn well why you didn't tell him the truth sooner._

_I don't know what you mean, _the housekeeper inside her claimed unconvincingly.

_You didn't tell him that you had no money because you hoped something would change between the two of you._

_Change? What could change between us? _She asked herself, though she already knew the answer.

When he'd first asked her to...invest in a property together she'd wanted to read between the lines to hear his business offer as a proposal of something more. He'd been so adorably nervous raising the subject that she could almost believe it had been a proposal of marriage. She knew Mr. Carson would never speak directly about his feelings; supposing he had any.

After that day, she retroactively let herself see more in his actions than was there. She remembered him singing in his pantry after receiving the news of her clean bill of health. She remembered the lift of his eyebrows at her 'risque' suggestion on the beach. More recently, he'd told her that he wasn't comfortable when they disagreed. She remembered the way he'd said, _'Get away with you,'_ when, in a moment of weakness, she'd flirted with him more than she'd intended. His tone had been soft, playful, but serious. There had been something in his expression that flustered her. If Thomas hadn't interrupted them, there was no telling what she might have said.

And then there had been the day they'd spent touring the houses almost as fondly as she remembered their day at the beach. He was different away from his responsibilities. He always seemed more human in his grey suit, somehow. He was still proper and a little stiff, but he smiled more, laughed even. He'd acted like a gentleman escorting a Lady on a picnic. He'd only let her carry the basket Mrs. Patmore had packed for them after they'd eaten and it was lighter. He'd strolled along the path by her side, his steps still purposeful, but not hurried.

She had stacked all these memories together into a monument that proved that he cared for her. Then, last night, her house of cards had collapsed; her illusions destroyed. He'd come to her with wine from his own collection, beaming proudly, almost giddy with excitement, and she'd thrown a wet blanket on his happiness. She would never forget the look of confused disappointment when she'd finally said 'no'. How could he ever forgive her? How could she ever forgive herself?

She shook off these fanciful thoughts with a self reproachful grunt. Daydreaming had never gotten her anywhere. She was a pragmatic woman and gazing wistfully out a window dreaming of what might have been was not going to do any good to anyone; her, Becky or him. She felt badly for misleading Mr. Carson, she truly did, but he had assured her that he could afford the house without her. At least she had not ruined the dream for him.

She had enjoyed the past few months so much that she could not honestly regret her actions. She'd traveled this journey with him as far as she could, culminating in an idyllic day with him all to herself; a memory she would always have to cherish. It had been worth it, even if he was cross with her for a while. Ultimately, she trusted that Mr. Carson was her friend and he wasn't going to punish her for fooling herself into believing she had any options in life. Their friendship was not so fragile as that.

It was foolishness to avoid him, she decided. There was no point in it. Such a course of action would only serve to punish them both and he did not deserve to be punished. _Besides_, she thought practically, _he'll be at every meal and I have to eat._

TBC...

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><p><strong>AN Thank you for the enthusiastic encouragement, your reviews and follows lead me to believe that I am not the only one obsessing over this time frame. I don't anticipate more than 5 chapters, but can't write anything else until I've exorcised these thoughts.  
><strong>

**Next chapter, Mr. Bates does a runner and Carson puts a bid on the house.**

**As always, I love hearing your thoughts. **


	3. Bid for a Dream

**AN/ **** Both POV's today. ****This is a little more speculative, but I think realistic. **

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><p>He read the letter one last time. Everything seemed in order. The offer was fair and he had every faith that it would be accepted. He sealed the envelope with a smile and added it to the pile that would go out with the morning post. He poured a small glass of sherry for himself and toasted to his hoped for success.<p>

The wine did not taste as sweet as it should and his celebration was over before it really began. He wanted to share the news with her, but that would be unkind, he thought. She'd mentioned the house to him only once in the week since she'd withdrawn from the project. She'd simply reiterated that she hoped he would still be pursuing home ownership.

Her tone had been light as she teasingly called him an aspiring property magnate, but he'd seen the small twitch of her lips as she forced her smile a little too much, but not enough to reach her eyes. He'd begun to notice these little signs of discontent once he'd begun to look for them. They were few and far between, but they were there for anyone who was looking. It was clear that no one was looking except for him. They all took her for granted, just as he had.

She was putting on a brave face and most of the time she was her practical self. There had been some awkwardness at breakfast the day after he learned about Becky, but Elsie had been her old self by luncheon. Maybe she had laughed a little too loudly or had taken more interest than usual in his complaints about the lack of a second footman, but it had been an improvement from the stilted quiet of the morning.

By dinner, he felt they were almost back on even keel and then Mr. Molesley had delivered Mr. Bates' letters. From that point forward it had been all business. Together they'd handled the logistics of going without a valet and welcoming Anna back to the house. Things were calming down now, settling into a sort of routine though no one expected it to last. They had not shared an end of day drink since that fateful night when she'd deflated his balloon.

Yesterday, she'd given him a little frown after her meeting with Lady Grantham. He knew that Elsie would suspect his interference, but she was unlikely to confront him about it. It was worth the risk. He did not regret his actions on that front. It had felt good to be able to do something for her.

There were now no signs she was at all concerned with the death of their dream. It was clear that she wasn't dwelling on the missed opportunity as much as he was. He wasn't really sure why he was carrying the plan forward. Mostly, he didn't want her to feel guilty about derailing his retirement scheme. He could hardly tell her that there was no point to any of it without her, could he?

Indeed, he was so reluctant to accept that she was no longer part of the enterprise that he'd kept the wording in his letter purposefully vague. He'd used phrases like, 'it is our hope the offer will be to your liking' and 'we look forward to hearing from you.' There was no reason the broker should know that he was no longer in partnership with Mrs. Hughes.

He finished off the bitter tasting sherry before returning the glass to the tray. Leaving the decanter and glasses for a maid to clear in the morning, he turned off the lights and closed up his office.

-00-

Mrs. Hughes saw the envelope addressed to the property broker as she added a last minute order to the post. Was Mr. Carson sending in his bid or was he politely telling the broker that they were no longer in the market for a house? His demeanor at breakfast gave her no indication either way.

He was being careful not to mention the house or Becky, but she wanted to talk to him about the house. She wanted to see him smile again as he talked about the future. 'When we retire,' he'd said on several occasions. She'd felt like a silly goose the way her pulse quickened when he said 'we'. It was clear that he assumed they'd retire simultaneously. She knew that she didn't dare read anything more into it, but her heart raced nonetheless.

There had been no significant change between them since her confession. She felt his eyes on her a little more often. Maybe he was looking for signs of her poverty that had gone unnoticed before now. Did he see that her shoes had been reshod yet again? Did he notice that her handkerchiefs were just squares of fabric from old bed linens that she'd disguised with a bit of embroidery? Did he see the dinginess that she felt hovered around her but never quite settled?

The only sign that he even knew her secret had come in a conversation with Lady Grantham yesterday. She hadn't been surprised by the midweek meeting; so many things were changing in the household it made sense to have an extra sit down with the mistress of the house. She had been surprised at the topic.

_'I'm afraid we've done you a disservice, Mrs. Hughes,'_ the countess had said in that sweet but condescending voice of hers. It had taken Elsie a few years to realize that she wasn't being treated like a child or an imbecile; that was just how Lady Grantham spoke. _'We've asked you to do the work of two people by taking on Grantham House in addition to your work here.'_

_'I don't mind, Milady. I enjoy London.'_

_'I'm glad to hear it, but we ought to have adjusted your salary to reflect the extra work. Carson tells me with what we saved from not replacing Mrs. Bute, we can afford a second footman and offer both you and Mrs. Patmore much deserved pay rises. The sale of the della Francesca has His Lordship in a generous mood and I think we should take advantage, don't you?'_

She'd wanted to protest, but how could she do so without affecting Mrs. Patmore's pay rise? Mr. Carson had certainly handled this deftly. She understood then why he had looked like the cat that got the cream when he announced they would be hiring a second footman.

_'Whatever you feel best, Milady,'_ she'd answered and the Countess had told her the sums. It was generous indeed, almost a fifteen percent rise. Mrs. Patmore would be able to make some improvements on her property sooner than expected which meant she could charge more rent.

Elsie had wanted to be upset with him. She still considered confronting him, but what would be the point? He'd reason that her salary was due an update as was Mrs. Patmore's and that it was best to do so before the savings from Mrs. Bute's salary were already rolled into other parts of the estate.

She tried to tell herself that he'd have made the same suggestion even if he hadn't known about Becky, but she knew it wasn't so. It wasn't his place to comment on the salaries of the female staff. He'd overstepped his authority even mentioning it to Her Ladyship. He would never have done so without good reason. Elsie very much suspected that Becky was that reason. It really was impossible for her to be upset with him on this score. Unfortunately, she really wasn't able to thank him either. He'd deny his interference and say something cold about it being long overdue. Best to do nothing, but…

"Is that the morning post, Mrs. Hughes?" Thomas's voice roused her from her thoughts.

"Yes, Mr. Barrow, I was just adding my own last minute letter." She handed the under butler the small stack of envelopes. She hoped very much that Mr. Carson had put a bid in on the house. If he had, he would tell her in his own time. Even if she wasn't part owner, Elsie was sure there would be opportunities for her to visit the house with him. She looked forward to just having that.

TBC…

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><p><strong>AN I love hearing your thoughts. Next chapter I think we'll jump forward a ways to when he gets word that his bid is accepted.**


	4. Sleepwalking

**AN/ Let's get another POV, shall we? A bit 'o Beryl to brighten your day...**

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><p>Mrs. Hughes saw a flash of black and white as he scampered out of the kitchen just as she entered by the opposite way. That was the most she'd seen of him since the morning post had arrived during breakfast. What was he up to?<p>

It could only bode ill if he was sneaking around. Mrs. Hughes' suspicions only heightened further when Mrs. Patmore acted cagey when addressed by the housekeeper.

She didn't press the point, but she did give Mrs. Patmore a warning look as she delivered the week's menu plan. _I know you're hiding something Beryl Patmore,_ she glared at her friend. The cook had the good sense to find an immediate reason to hurry back into the pantry.

Shaking her head to herself, Mrs. Hughes entered the hallway on her way to her sitting room but stopped. Maybe she should speak to Mr. Carson. He'd have to talk to her. He was trapped in his parlor, doubly trapped behind his desk, no doubt. The door to his pantry was shut, but that didn't mean anything to anyone else in the house, why should it stop her?

-00-

He sat at his desk staring at the door, his fingers drumming nervously on his desk set and the letter. She'd probably concluded her business with Mrs. Patmore by now. Would she pay him a visit or would she retreat to her office? She was likely aware that he was ducking her by now. Would she respect his privacy or would she insist on knowing what was going on? Either action was possible. It simply depended on her mood. He wasn't sure which route he wished for her to take.

He heard her foot steps and just saw the top of her head pass by the interior window. He sighed with relief and leaned back in his chair. Maybe it was for the best. Then the door nearest his desk opened with a brisk knock.

-00-

"I've just delivered the week's menu and meal schedule to Mrs. Patmore. It's a quiet week. We're only entertaining Mr. Travis and Dr. Clarkson for Thursday luncheon."

Her eyes scanned his desk with practiced speed. She knew his desk as well as he did and would notice if anything was out of place. The only thing she saw was an open letter. It must have come in the legal sized envelope that lay beside it. He'd had news, most likely about the house, but was it good or bad? She wasn't even sure what she considered good news on this front.

"Very good. Thank you, Mrs. Hughes. I'll have Mr. Molesley and Andy begin writing the place cards after Mrs. Patmore has approved the menus."

He wondered why they were discussing a process they had successfully completed almost a thousand times before. She'd seen the letter. He saw it in her eyes, but she didn't mention it. Part of him wanted her to mention it, to extract the truth from him, but now was not the time.

"Was there anything else you needed?" _I'm not ready to discuss this just now._

"Would you care for a sherry this evening? It's been a while." _ I miss talking to you._

"It has been some time." _Too long._ "Yes, I'd be delighted, Mrs. Hughes." _Maybe I can tell you tonight. I'll try._

"Very good." _That's enough for now._

She closed his door behind her and moved on to her own office with a crisp step and a hopeful smile.

-00-

Mrs. Patmore had come right back out of the pantry carrying the first thing she could reach. She hadn't needed anything, especially not…_a head of lettuce?_

She scoffed and set it aside. She sidled up to the door to listen to Mrs. Hughes talking to Mr. Carson. _Thank goodness they're talking. I couldn't take even a day of those two at odds. I always end up being the go between._

Mrs. Hughes moved on to her sitting room and Mrs. Patmore decided on a bold course of action. _The worst he can do is bark at me, the old dog._

"Mr. Carson?"

"Yes, Mrs. Patmore?"

"You should just tell her. Nothing stays a secret down here for long." _Especially not when I know it._

"I think you may be right. Thank you." _I'd already reached that conclusion, but I appreciate your opinion._

Mrs. Patmore nodded encouragingly to him before returning to the kitchen to put the lettuce head back in the pantry. She didn't know exactly what there was between her two friends. They both played their cards close to the vest, but she knew there was something. It was something more than the fact that Mrs. Hughes could convince Mr. Carson of almost anything.

_Wrapped around her finger, he is,_ Mrs. Patmore thought, _but he's such a stubborn old mule, that's a dangerous position to be in. I surely wouldn't want an old mule wrapped around my finger. But then, I haven't Mrs. Hughes' patience. He's good man underneath the bluster. _Sometimes Mrs. Hughes was the only one who could see past the starched layers to find a man at the heart of the butler.

Mrs. Patmore leaned against the shelving in the food pantry thinking about recent developments between the two heads of staff. Not two weeks after she'd decided to buy her house, Mrs. Patmore had heard from Anna that Mrs. Hughes and Mr. Carson were considering buying a house together to let or run as a bed and breakfast.

_Sly old fox._ _Investment my foot! _She'd thought with a wise grin when she'd heard. She'd watched them both closely after that for signs of any indication that it was more than a business venture. There were none beyond the almost imperceptible new playfulness in the butler. She'd actually caught him humming to himself as he looked over the house specifications one afternoon.

She'd personally packed them a lovely picnic basket with their shared favorites for their day of touring houses and she'd watched their faces when they returned. Mr. Carson looked most pleased with himself. Mrs. Hughes had been harder to read.

_'Thank you for the picnic, Mrs. Patmore. You know how to spoil us. Mr. Carson wouldn't stop talking about lunch all the way back.' _

_'And how did you find the houses?'_

_'One was especially promising, but I'm sure Mr. Carson will want to keep looking. He says that he has to do the sums to see if any of them will suit.'_

_'But what do you think?'_

_'I think I'll let him look at the figures before I decide.'_ The housekeeper had answered diplomatically.

Mrs. Patmore had taken special care setting the table that night for the intimate dinner the remaining senior staff had shared that evening. The candles had been a last minute addition. _Perhaps a bit of romantic lighting might be in order,_ she'd thought at the time. She'd had half a mind to banish Mr. Carson from the table when he balked at Daisy joining them, but she hadn't wanted to miss the opportunity to observe the two of them up close.

Mrs. Patmore rarely sat at table with them and she was usually too busy to watch them at meals so she didn't have a true point of reference, but it seemed to her that the two were rather cozy. They participated in the general conversation but seemed to be having a silent one of their own simultaneously that was a sort of running commentary. When Daisy had spoken about starting a correspondence course in natural science Mr. Carson had opened his mouth to say something; something discouraging, no doubt. But he had been stopped by Mrs. Hughes coughing ever so slightly and catching his eye.

Mrs. Patmore had resolved to ask Mrs. Hughes about the house in more depth, but before she could there had been all the kerfuffle of Mr. Bates' confession and the excitement surrounding the family returning. It was a little while before she could broach the subject again.

_ 'How are things going on the home hunt front?'_ She'd asked Mrs. Hughes cheerfully one morning a week after Anna's return.

_'I decided that it wasn't the right investment for me, but I think Mr. Carson is still looking.' _The housekeeper sounded chipper enough, but it didn't ring true to Mrs. Patmore.

_'You think? You don't know?' _

_'We haven't really discussed it. He thinks it's a bother for me to hear about it.' _

Mrs. Patmore had not delved any deeper, but had anyone asked, Mrs. Patmore would have confessed herself shocked that Mrs. Hughes had withdrawn from the scheme. It didn't make any sense from what she could see. They hadn't fought, she was sure of that. The whole downstairs would have known if there had been a major row between butler and housekeeper.

Mr. Carson had been more somber of late, but Mrs. Patmore chalked that up to the return of the family and his responsibilities. The sherry glasses had not needed washing as often and even then, only one at a time. _Perhaps they're just busy,_ she'd thought.

Then, today Mr. Carson had come to her with some questions about the purchasing procedure; seeing as how she'd just completed the purchase of her house a few days ago. He'd asked her not to mention it to Mrs. Hughes. She'd asked him why the secrecy was necessary, but the daft man had skedaddled out of her kitchen at the sound of Mrs. Hughes' steps coming down the stairs.

Mrs. Patmore shrugged and placed the lettuce back in the basket with the other heads. She'd told herself years ago it was useless to try and figure out Mrs. Hughes or Mr. Carson, let alone Mrs. Hughes _and_ Mr. Carson.

_You can stare at a hen all day, but you'll see naught but feathers_, she shrugged to herself and went on about her work.

* * *

><p><strong>AN A lot will be said in their sherry session this evening. If you've never heard that little colloquialism of Beryl's before, you are not alone. I either made it up or it's a repressed memory from my grandmother who had almost as many sayings as Beryl.**


	5. Sherry and Sweet Dreams

**AN/ Here's a (mostly) external conversation for a change...**

* * *

><p>Neither of them spoke as he poured out the sherry. The silence hung between them like a physical barrier. This was their usual sherry so he couldn't even break the tension with a description of the wine. <em>Say something!<em> his mind urged, but it was Mrs. Hughes who first jumped bravely into the breach.

"How is young Andy doing, do you think?" She thought it was best to start with something relating to the household.

"It's still early days, but the lad is eager and a quick study," Mr. Carson responded, grateful for the innocuous topic. This was safe territory. "Thomas has rather taken him under his wing, which is helpful; if a little worrisome."

"It may shock you to hear it, Lord knows it shocks me to say it, but I think Thomas could be a good influence on the lad."

"Of course he _could_ be, if he chooses to be, but _will_ he be? That's my concern."

"No reason to worry about it now. Speaking of worrying…" _Oh, real smooth, Elsie, lass. _She chided herself. "Was there something worrying in this morning's post? You've been distracted all day."

"Not worrying, just a bit of news." What was the point in lying to her? That could only serve to make matters worse.

"Good or bad? Good, I hope."

_That depends._ "Yes, good. The offer I sent for the house on Brouncker has been accepted." He watched her response carefully.

"Congratulations." She managed a sincere smile and raised her glass. "I wasn't aware you'd made an offer. I'm so glad you went ahead with your plans."

_They were our plans once; our little dream, _he thought. "I honestly wasn't sure you would want to know." _Doesn't it bother you? Why doesn't it bother you?_

"Of course I want to know. I assure you that you wouldn't spare my feelings by keeping it from me."

Charles frowned at her words. _ Maybe I have upset her._ The thought did not cheer him. I_ should never have said anything. I should never have made an offer._

_Oh, dear, he thinks he's upset me._ "What I mean is that you don't have to worry about sparing my feelings. I'm happy for you. Just as I was for Mrs. Patmore." _Well, maybe this is a little different. _"Please don't feel that you can't talk to me about it. I hope you will keep me informed. I'm very interested."

"Thank you, that's very good of you…all things considered." _Dolt, why bring that up now?_

She ignored his reference to her circumstances. "When will you take possession?" _How soon might you retire?_

"As you know, the current owners are building closer to York. They'll be staying on until the new house is completed, which should be near the end of the year. So it will be January before I can begin making any improvements. If I'm lucky, I may have it available for the first tenants by St. David's Day."

_March 1__st__._ _Plenty of time to hire and train a new butler_, she thought. At least he was talking about tenants, not about living there himself. He had still not mentioned retirement overtly. "Do you have any immediate renovations in mind?"

"A few. In fact, if it isn't too much to ask, I'd be grateful for your advice on the improvements, especially the decor. Every house needs a woman's…" _Touch_. "…advice. And there's no woman whose opinion I trust more than you."

"I'd be happy to help." _Especially if it means more days away from Downton together. _Her face glowed at the prospect.

_My God, she's beautiful. Maybe I can still change her mind. _

They fell silent but this quiet enveloped them both, pulling them closer instead of pushing them apart. Encouraged by the return of their more personal interactions, Mr. Carson decided to address something that had been bothering him.

"Mrs. Hughes," he began tentatively. "Might I ask…That is I was wondering…"

"Yes?" _What could he want?_

"About Becky…"

"Is there something you'd like to ask about my sister?"

"Yes, but I don't want to press you if you don't wish to speak of her." _ But I hope you will tell me about her. Tell me how I can help._

"Now that you know about her, I don't mind. You may ask whatever you like, but I don't promise to answer."_ I want to tell you. _As painful as it had been to tell him about Becky, she was glad that she had. Now she had a friend she could speak to about her sister. She'd always felt badly about treating Becky like dirty secret.

"That's fair," he accepted her terms. "Only, I was curious as to where she is."

"She lives in Lytham St. Annes."

"Near Blackpool? Why so far away?"

_A question that I've asked myself a hundred times_. "My mother and Becky lived there in a group home my mother read about. They cater to people like Becky. She spent her days there while my mother worked. After my mother died, they allowed her to remain there. She has a roommate now.

"She has friends there. She knows her neighborhood. The shopkeepers know her. During the day she can go to the park on her own or even the beach. She knows not to go into the water when she's alone. She mainly goes to chase the seagulls. She loves seagulls." She smiled sadly as she remembered her sister running along the beaches in Argyll when they were young, calling back to the noisy gulls. Cynical, twelve-year-old Elsie rather hated seagulls; they were smelly and mean, but Becky didn't see them that way. To her innocent heart, they were playful creatures of the air and sea. This was just the first instance of many when Elsie learned that the world was a happier place when seen through Becky's eyes.

Charles saw her wistful smile and his heart ached. She obviously loved her sister very much.

"What could I offer her in Yorkshire? She doesn't know the village and she can hardly wander the woods or the moors all day. She was better off there. It seemed cruel to move her." _Even if I wanted her closer._

"When was the last time you saw her?" _You must miss her terribly._

"Three years ago in July." _God, has it really been that long?_

"I know it isn't just a day trip, but you could have taken two or three days together to visit. You only had to ask. It wouldn't have been an inconvenience," he insisted. "Well, not much of one and you've certainly earned a few days off over the past three years."

"It wasn't only the inconvenience. I couldn't afford the train and a room, but I can now, thanks to Her Ladyship's generosity." _And your intervention._

"Nonsense. It's a salary, not charity. You earn that money. They ask you to do the work of two people. It's only right that they adjust your salary to reflect the extra work."

"That's what Her Ladyship said; almost verbatim." _I knew it!_

"Because it's the truth," he said, brooking no discussion. "Does she know you when you visit?"

"Yes, she's simple, but her memory is not affected."

"How bad…I mean…" _Goodness, how does one ask?_ He didn't know the vernacular for this subject. It wasn't discussed in polite society. She understood what he wanted to know.

"She developed slowly until she reached the mental capacity of a ten year old child, according to the doctors. Then she just sort of got stuck."

"Ten isn't a bad age to be stuck at, if one must get stuck," he said lamely. _Fool! What the hell does that mean?_

"Yes, she still has the hopeful innocence of a child. She is a beautiful soul."

"I'm sure she is." _If she's anything like her sister._

Their glasses had been empty for some time.

"I suppose we should call it a night," he said reluctantly. Mr. Carson set his glass on the tray with the decanter. Mrs. Hughes handed him her glass and he repeated the gesture. He stood and turned for the door. She stood also, preparing to follow him out. With the door open, he turned back to her.

"I hope you will find the opportunity to visit her soon. We'll fall apart while you're gone, but we'll survive," Mr. Carson teased, but she saw the sincere concern behind his jesting. "Please let me know if I can help." "

"You've already helped so much," she smiled.

"I haven't done any-"

"But you have, Mr. Carson," she stopped him. "And there is not use denying it. Just accept my gratitude or I shall be cross with you."

He lowered his eyes in acquiescence. This was not worth arguing over. He had indeed influenced Lady Grantham's decision to offer her and Mrs. Patmore salary increases, but there was so much more he wanted to do for her. For now, he would have to be content with whatever little things she would allow him to do or with anything he could do without her knowing.

"I'll say good night, Mr. Carson. I am so glad to hear the news about your house." _Or I shall be._

"Thank you, Mrs. Hughes." Oddly, he felt better about the whole business now that he'd told her. It was still too soon to tell her that his original plans were unaltered, but at least they could speak openly about it in the meantime. Someday he hoped he could tell her that their dream was still alive. "Good night." _Sweet dreams._

TBC…

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><p><strong>AN I noticed on a CS rewatch (and rewatch and rewatch...) how casual he was when he brought the wine in during the 'Margaux' scene and the 'Becky' scene. He just comes in with the decanter and two glasses. Apparently, it is only the sherry that comes on that little tray with the (fluctuating number of) glasses, or maybe he was so excited, he skipped over using a tray altogether. Either way, it shows how their relationship has moved from formal to casual. IMO.  
><strong>

**Thoughts on this chapter? Drop me a line.  
><strong>


	6. A Sterling Dream

The days were patently shorter as they navigated November. Though he rarely left the castle, Mr. Carson felt the difference keenly. He missed the little bit of natural light that managed to fight its way into his den during eight months of the year.

The time was not yet six but his room was already dark enough that she would have scolded him for not turning on a lamp. There was a small glow beyond the window, but none of this feeble winter light was strong enough to penetrate the gathered gloom.

Mr. Carson sat at his desk deep in thought holding a silver frame in front of him. He'd appreciated the gift when he'd received it, but obviously not enough. Now, the obvious monetary value of the frame bothered him. If money was as tight for her as she'd said, this gift would have been a mighty strain on her finances. It was not right for him to have accepted it in the first place. He needed to find a way to return it without insulting her.

He heard her familiar step in the hall, but did not register it in time to conceal the frame before she entered the room with a cursory knock.

"You'll strain your eyes, Mr. Carson," she scolded immediately.

"I wasn't reading," he said defensively.

"Then what were you doing?" Mrs. Hughes frowned at him. He was hardly more than a dark shadow behind the desk. The electric light from the hallway filtered into the room around her shadow, in which he sat. Random beams invaded the room and illuminated nothing of interest. "What will the staff think of you sitting alone in the dark? You shall be come philosophical."

He could hear but not see her frown, nor any details of her face or dress. She was nothing more than a back lit silhouette in his doorway. There was no escape, he'd been caught. Mr. Carson thought he might as well be honest with her about the frame, but he wasn't sure how to proceed.

His lack of response began to worry her. She activated the light switch beside the door and the room was suddenly, glaringly lit. He flinched and shaded his eyes. In the process, he lay the frame on his desk in front of him. Mrs. Hughes saw the gleam of silver as he did so. She'd wondered what had become of the photo of Alice. Mr. Carson had removed it from his office soon after their return from London last year. Though she had some idea of why he'd removed it, Mrs. Hughes had never commented on its absence and he'd never offered any explanation.

"Is everything alright?" Her sincere concern for him was clear.

"Come in, Mrs. Hughes, please sit," he invited.

She obeyed. She sat in the chair before his desk with her hands folded in her lap. Her calm demeanor hid her anxiety. Why had he been sitting in the dark remembering Alice Neale? Did Mr. Carson feel that Mrs. Hughes had treated him badly, as Miss Neale had? Was he more upset with her than he'd let on?

"Since you asked, the answer is no; everything is not alright," he confided. "I find myself in a bit of a dilemma." He tapped a finger absently on the frame.

"Can I help?"

"I believe so," he said, but then fell silent. She waited patiently for him to continue, but her insides were roiling.

"Mrs. Hughes, I hope you know that the last thing I would ever wish to do is insult you."

"I do know that, Mr. Carson." Her hands twisted in her lap.

"But you see, it's this…" He tapped the frame more pointedly. "This _gift_. I should never have accepted such an expensive gift from you."

Some of the tension left her body. He was not upset with her. He was still upset with himself. "You've nothing to concern yourself with on that score, Mr. Carson."

Mr. Carson shook his head. "No. Even before knowing about…the demands on your finances, it was inappropriate. Now, it's simply unacceptable."

"You might have a point, if I had _purchased_ the frame, but I did not," Mrs. Hughes confessed with a bowed head. "I should not have given you the impression that I had."

"I don't understand."

"Mrs. Crawley gave me the frame."

Mr. Carson's features contorted in confusion. Mrs. Hughes resisted the urge to grin at him. Mr. Carson had a wide repertoire of expressions to communicate confusion and this was one of her favorites; confused but intrigued. This one always reminded her vaguely of a puppy encountering a hedgehog for the first time, owing largely to the tilt of his head.

"She said it was as thanks for my help with Mr. Grigg. I, of course, refused to accept it at first. Then, she explained why she wanted me to have it. It was partly to thank me and partly because she wished to be rid of it."

"Why should she wish that?"

"She'd bought it for Mr. Matthew. Mrs. Crawley wanted him to put a photograph of Lady Mary, the baby and himself in it to keep at his office," Mrs. Hughes explained. "After his death, she didn't feel right returning it and she didn't think Lady Mary would want it. So it sat there in her desk and haunted her in a way. She gave it to me to stop it from reminding her of what might have been.

"It was too nice for my sitting room and I didn't have a photograph that I wanted to display." She could hardly have a picture of Becky on her desk or in her room for anyone to see. "I remembered your picture of Alice and thought you could use it."

"So you gave the haunted frame to me?" Mr. Carson asked with a small smile.

"No! It's not haunted…" she began to defend herself, but stopped when she realized he was teasing her.

"You were right; I did need it," he admitted, staring anew at the silver item. "But I don't need it anymore."

"I still don't want it," Mrs. Hughes insisted.

"Then what are we to do with it?" Mr. Carson wondered with a sigh. "A fine frame like this deserves to hold the image of a happy family. That's what Mrs. Crawley intended for it."

Mrs. Hughes nodded thoughtfully. She could think of a happy family she wished to see pictured in that frame, but knew it could not be.

"You know…" Mr. Carson said tentatively. "There _is_ a way we could."

"Could what?"

"Could give this frame a family photograph worthy of its value; both monetary and sentimental, but…"

"But….?" She felt a flutter of hope in her chest. She knew he was likely to say that they give the frame to Lady Mary with a photo of Lady Mary and Mr. Crawley on their wedding day or something of that ilk, but there was the slightest hope he might say something else.

"We could…I know it sounds odd, but we could…" He looked up and their eyes locked. She was sure he was thinking what she was thinking. _We could be that family._

"Yes?" Mrs. Hughes prompted with her heart in her throat.

"We could give the frame to Anna; if we could find a suitable photograph, of course. There might be one in the staff album or perhaps Lord Grantham has something from the war. Just something to remind her of him and perhaps cheer her up," Mr. Carson concluded. "She's been understandably subdued since her return."

"And what would we tell her if she asks why we've given her this gift?" Mrs. Hughes managed to ask. His suggestion had truly surprised her.

"We tell her it is a temporary gift, just as her troubles are temporary. Once she and Mr. Bates are together again, they can keep an eye out for someone to pass it on to. To give her something positive to look forward to when she looks at the picture in the frame," Mr. Carson suggested.

"I'm not sure that I understand how it does that," Mrs. Hughes told him honestly.

"This frame isn't valuable because of the silver it's made of or even because of the image it may hold. What makes it valuable is that it is a gift." Mr. Carson could see that she still follow his reasoning. He wasn't sure he'd be able to properly articulate his point, but he had to try.

"Mrs. Hughes, Mrs. Crawley gave you this frame because you helped her awake from her grief. She wasn't prepared to let it go until she could start to let him go. Then, you gave me this frame to help me heal my past heartbreak." He held up the frame and she saw for the first time that it was empty; the image of Alice Neale was nowhere to be seen. "And it accomplished that."

Mr. Carson truly believed that this frame had healing qualities; qualities that should be shared. He hoped Mrs. Hughes agreed, even with his inadequate explanation.

"So you would like to give it to Anna to help her through this difficult time of separation from Mr. Bates?" The housekeeper said doubtfully.

"To let her know we are thinking of her and to give her something to hold on to until they are together again," Mr. Carson nodded enthusiastically. "Which will be soon, God willing."

"And then you would have her pass it along to someone else?"

"Yes. Perhaps it is a silly notion born from sitting in the dark too much, but I think this frame should not be a possession which belongs to anyone. It should not be bought or sold, but it should always be gifted to someone who needs to be reminded that someone values them." _That they are loved._

She just stared at him. _Who is this man?_ She wondered. This was certainly not the man who scolded her for sentimentality with one breath before cooing at little Sybbie with the next. This was a new creature, finally more man than butler. He no longer hid his feelings behind a wall of strict discipline; not around her, at least. Mr. Carson was learning to voice his doubts. It appeared that he was also learning to accept his own human frailty and vulnerability. It was something she'd always hoped for, but never truly expected to see. There had been signs, small and rare, of his progress, but this was a huge leap forward.

"Well?" He prompted when she'd been silent too long.

"It isn't a silly notion, Mr. Carson, not at all," Mrs. Hughes assured him. "But you probably should avoid sitting and thinking in the dark for a while."

"You're probably right," he agreed with a chuckle.

_Who's hiding now?_ She cursed herself. Just as he used propriety, she used humor to handle difficult emotional moments. As usual, it worked. Mr. Carson tapped the frame one last time with a satisfied smile. The decision was made.

"I'll see if I can find a photograph from Africa and you look for one from the staff archives. When was the last time we did staff pictures?" He asked rhetorically before answering himself. "Just after the war, I think."

"Very good," Mrs. Hughes stood to leave.

"Mrs. Hughes?" He stopped her before she could make her escape. She'd opened the door and was so close. "Was there something specific you needed when you came looking for me?"

"It can wait," she tried to dismiss herself.

"But there's no logical reason it should since you're already here," he countered. "What was it?"

"It seems silly now, but I wanted your opinion about the jigsaw puzzles."

"Jigsaw puzzles?"

This perplexed face was the one that reminded her of the fish that hung on his wall. She hid her grin and slight giggle by turning towards the door and reclosing it.

"Lady Grantham has me purge the family jigsaw puzzles before Christmas each year. Usually, I split the old ones between the school, the hospital and the church."

"Has something changed?"

"I was hoping…You see, at the facility where my sister lives…"

He nodded for her to continue.

"…The residents like to do jigsaw puzzles on rainy days. I doubt they've seen anything like that last puzzle the family did. There must have been five thousand pieces."

"And you want to send it to them?"

"If you think that would be appropriate. It isn't within the county, mind, so I wasn't sure if Her Ladyship would approve. I'd ask her, but…"

"…She doesn't know about Becky." Mr. Carson concluded.

"Just so." Mrs. Hughes forced herself not to fidget or worry her lip as she waited for his verdict.

Mr. Carson took a moment before answering. This was a delicate thing because it was only the second time they'd discussed Becky since he'd learned of her existence. Then again, they were just talking about some puzzles.

"Mrs. Hughes, I thank you for asking my opinion, but I don't think you need it. Her Ladyship trusts your judgment on the matter and I see no reason to question that judgment. They're only jigsaw puzzles, after all. Send them _all_ to your sister if you like," he said with a magnanimous smile.

"One will suffice," she informed him. She was almost out the door before she turned. "And thank you, Mr. Carson, perhaps I did not need your opinion, but you've made my mind easier about it."

"My door is always open," Mr. Carson assured her. As if to punctuate the point, Mr. Molesley burst into the office through the door furthest from the desk.

"Mr. Carson, the menus for tonight are ruined!"

Mr. Carson did not even ask for an explanation as the footman held up a clump of soggy pages that had undoubtedly been the meticulously written menus for that evening.

"Send Andrew upstairs and have Mr. Barrow come down to help you rewrite them," Mr. Carson ordered, ignoring the amused grin on the housekeeper's face. "And stop carrying those dripping pages all around the downstairs; you're making a mess."

TBC…

* * *

><p><strong>AN Whew! I'm very sorry for the tardiness of this update, but life is moving at warp speed and I'm moving like molasses in winter. **

**I thought this was an important subject to address. Why would she buy him a really expensive silver frame when money is so tight? My answer is…she didn't. It's still significant that she gave it to him, but Mrs. Hughes is not a frivolous woman, I don't see her splurging for a frame that he can put another woman's picture in. So, my RetCon (retroactive continuity) is that she already had the frame from another source; the upstairs folks being the most likely. I toyed with her admitting she'd stolen it from Lady Edith's wedding presents when they had to return them all, but that isn't exactly in character. **

**I haven't had much writing time and ZERO reading time****L**** I see all these great stories that have posted in my absence, but I can't read them yet. I hope to soon and will review when I do.**

**I don't think I replied to the last wave of reviews, but I will reply to these, if anyone wants to leave one.**


	7. Dream Approaching Reality

"Mrs. Patmore, have you seen Mr. Carson?" Mrs. Hughes caught the cook having her tea at the little table in the kitchen. "I've been looking for him half the afternoon. If he wants me to wrap the gifts for the male staff…"

"He left the gifts in his office," Mrs. Patmore interrupted loudly. "He told me to tell you and it slipped my mind."

From Mrs. Patmore's abnormally raised voice and fidgety demeanor Mrs. Hughes knew immediately that something was afoot.

"I see," Mrs. Hughes pretended to be satisfied with the answer she'd received. Mrs. Patmore visibly relaxed and Mrs. Hughes pounced. "And what did he tell you _not_ to tell me?" The housekeeper demanded cooly.

"What…what? I don't know what you mean." Mrs. Patmore squirmed in her seat.

Unwilling to debate Mrs. Patmore's ignorance, Mrs. Hughes went straight to the interrogation. She had a good idea where Mr. Carson had gone. "Do you know where he is?"

The cook nodded but her lips were clamped shut.

"Is he even in the house?"

"How…?" Mrs. Patmore's confused frown told Mrs. Hughes everything. Mrs. Hughes could count on one hand the times Mr. Carson had left the house without checking in with her first. There was only one reason he would have kept his errand from her.

"He's gone to the bank in Ripon to close on the house, hasn't he?"

"How did you know that?" Mrs. Patmore was incredulous.

"And he didn't want to bother me about it?" Mrs. Hughes further surmised.

"Sometimes it's eerie how well you two know each other," Mrs. Patmore observed as she returned her attention to her tea with a pout.

With an exasperated sigh, Mrs. Hughes sat down opposite Mrs. Patmore and took a shortbread from the cook's plate.

"Hey! I didn't put that on my plate as a garnish," Mrs. Patmore protested. "I was planning to eat that."

Mrs. Hughes ignored the consternation of her friend and nibbled thoughtfully on the buttery biscuit. Why was he hiding this from her again? "I thought we were past that," she muttered to herself.

Mrs. Patmore's expression softened as she realized that her friend was genuinely perturbed by Mr. Carson's subterfuge.

"I expect he's still hurt that you backed out of the venture," Mrs. Patmore offered. She still didn't understand why Mrs. Hughes had withdrawn. "He was relying on you to be part of it. You know how much he hates it when something doesn't go to plan."

"That can't be it," Mrs. Hughes disagreed. "I told him why I couldn't. It turns out, he didn't need my money. His plans didn't change."

"Didn't they? His plan was to buy a house…with you," Mrs. Patmore insisted. "You said it yourself; he didn't need your money."

"I'm sure Mr. Carson wanted to limit his risk by sharing the investment," Mrs. Hughes tried to convince Mrs. Patmore and herself. Why hadn't she thought of that before? He didn't need her money. He never had. What did that mean? Why had he included her at all?

It was Mrs. Patmore's turn to take the upper hand. "Do you honestly think Mr. Carson wants to run a bed and breakfast on his own? Don't you remember when Mr. Taylor left to run a tea shop with the missus?"

Mrs. Hughes had to chuckle at the memory of an incredulous Mr. Carson telling her that Mr. Taylor was going to leave Lord Grantham's employ to serve tea to 'the great unwashed'. You'd have thought he was leaving to open a brothel. As much as his snobbery often annoyed her, his dedication to traditional standards could also be rather endearing. Besides which, she had to admit she enjoyed watching him get worked up over something she considered trivial.

"Wait," Mrs. Patmore exclaimed. "What did you mean when you said you told Mr. Carson why you_ 'couldn't'_ invest with him?"

"Did I say that?" Mrs. Hughes deflected. "I meant 'wouldn't', of course."

"Of course," Mrs. Patmore said skeptically.

Mrs. Hughes gave her friend a look and finished off her biscuit. "I should get back to work, Mrs. Patmore. I haven't time for dawdling. I have a mountain of presents to wrap."

-00-

"Take your time to look over the papers, Mr. Carson," Mr. Pembry offered. "But I believe you'll find it all in order."

"I'm sure I shall." Mr. Carson dropped his eyes from the smiling property agent to the sheath of papers in front of him. He'd read the boilerplate language before but these papers were different. These had been especially prepared for this transaction; his purchase of the house on Brouncker Road. His name was on nearly every page; his name and hers. His name beside hers. He stopped reading at the first incidence of their names typed side by side. '…buyers Elsie Hughes and Charles Carson…'

He hadn't told Mr. Pembry about Mrs. Hughes' withdrawal from the project. At first Mr. Carson had been too shocked. Then he had clung to the faintest of hopes that he might change her mind, but he hadn't. The opportunity never arose for him to convince her.

_Who are you kidding?_ His inner voice chided. _You never even tried to change her mind; you didn't have the courage. _

_Bloody Mr. Molesley kept interrupting us._

_Tosh! _Came the emphatic answer. It was true; he could blame interruptions for only so many of the things he hasn't said. There had been opportunities, entire evenings, when they sat, blissfully undisturbed, and he had not availed himself of the chance. He knew what he had to say, but he was terrified of saying it. It would change everything.

There really was only one way of changing her mind; only one way that she would accept his financial assistance. It wouldn't be enough to tell her that he didn't consider his money his own. She would not accept his argument that they'd earned the money together; that he could not have done his job without her.

No, she would never believe that, even though it was true. From weddings to garden teas to church bazaars, Carson couldn't think of a single event he'd managed in the past twenty five years without her by his side. To think he would plan something as important as their futures without her by his side was lunacy. But this argument would not be enough to persuade her to let him finance their future endeavor together. Her pride would not allow it except for under very specific circumstances. He had no right to support her. That right could only belong to a husband.

Still pretending to read the document, Mr. Carson flipped the page. Mr. Carson ran his fingers over the black lettering of the contract. He found their names again. With his thumb he covered the words, 'Hughes and Charles'. The line now read, 'Elsie…Carson'. He sighed and turned the page to the final page of the document.

Perhaps he should have told Mr. Pembry to take her name off the official documents after all, but it was too late. At this point they would just put a line through her name and initial beside it as they did with last minute changes to legal documents. Somehow that was even worse than not having her included at all; a legal document with her name forever slashed out.

"I'm sorry Mrs. Hughes couldn't come today," Mr. Pembry said conversationally as Mr. Carson sat back from looking over the document.

"It's difficult for us to both be away at this time of year," Mr. Carson said honestly. "She's needed at the house more than I am and the paperwork doesn't really interest her." All true.

"Well, since we are taking the full payment from your account, it isn't necessary for her to be here."

"We've settled the finances between the two of us. It seemed to make things easier." Mr. Carson wasn't sure why he felt the need to continue the ruse for this man's sake. He just didn't want Mr. Pembry to know that Mrs. Hughes couldn't afford a sash on the house, let alone half the cost. Her finances were none of this man's concern. Not that the agent would have cared. Mr. Pembry didn't care where the money came from so long as he received his commission.

"When will you both be free to see the house?"

"Very soon after Christmas," Mr. Carson said hopefully. He tapped the contract and pulled out his pen. "I believe everything is shipshape and Bristol fashion, as they say."

"Very well." A bank draft was exchanged. "Then if you would initial here…here…and here...and sign here…we are completed, Mr. Carson. Congratulations."

Mr. Carson's heart refused to beat for a moment as he watched the ink of his neat, concise and lonely signature dry on the bottom of the document. It was completed. He was committed. _Have I just made a terrible mistake?_ He wondered what the law said about including someone on a legal document without their permission. Was what he'd done considered fraud?

"Thank you, Mr. Pembry, you've been a great help." In a daze, he shook the agent's hand and accepted the ring of keys. The contract would be filed with the county tomorrow, but that was just a formality. The house was his; _ours._

Still preoccupied, Mr. Carson exited the bank and headed to the bus stop. Up until this moment, he'd told himself that he would tell Mrs. Hughes about her interest in the house as soon as the deed was done. He hoped that his gesture would convince her that he was serious about committing to a future with her despite her financial woes, but now doubt gripped him. A new option was dawning on him; a cowardly option.

_What if I just leave things as they are? If something happens to me, she'll inherit the house and she can retire if she wants. She'll be taken care of but we can remain as we are, colleagues and friends, _he thought.

_Is that what you want, man?_ An angry voice asked him.

_No._

_Do you think that's what she wants?_ The voice persisted.

_No...Maybe...I don't know…I don't think so._

_Then stick to the plan; tell her._

_Yes!_ "Stick to the plan," he nodded emphatically.

"I beg your pardon?" The man beside him looked at Mr. Carson curiously.

"Nothing," Mr. Carson said with a blush. When the bus came, Mr. Carson was sure to sit several rows behind the man. He didn't recognize the fellow, but it would never do for him to observe Mr. Carson's state of perturbation all the way back to Downton.

TBC…

* * *

><p><strong>AN For some reason, the thoughts in his head while he as signing the documents for the house are really important to me. I think that must have been the moment of no return for him. I hope I've reflected that.  
><strong>

**Canon gift wrapping scene next... [not to be confused with the cannon gift wrapping scene.]  
><strong>


	8. Symbiotic Dreams

_Stick to the plan._

The thought bolstered him as he rode in the back of the bus, but what was The Plan exactly? It wasn't very well defined; retire with Mrs. Hughes, full stop.

_'The secret is in the planning,'_ she had often told him. And the secret of the planning is in the details. He had a goal and a house. Beyond that, Mr. Carson's current plan was severely lacking in details. Many of the finer particulars could not be decided upon without Mrs. Hughes' participation. He knew that the best course of action was to get her involved as soon as possible.

Yes, that had to be his next step; asking Mrs. Hughes to believe in their little dream again. He knew she had not dismissed it as easily as it appeared. He knew she was trying hard to convince him that she was nothing but happy for him, but he saw how her eyes dropped sometimes when she did not know he was watching. Mr. Carson did not doubt that Mrs. Hughes had wanted to invest with him. Surely it wouldn't take much convincing to bring her back around. Perhaps he could even persuade her further.

How much would he need to say about his own feelings? If he said too little, she would think his offer came from a place of pity. If he said too much, he might embarrass her or make her uncomfortable working with him if she did not return the sentiments.

Would he need to tell her that he'd been thinking about their future together ever since she took his hand on the beach?

_No, it was before that; long before that, certainly._

Mr. Carson couldn't pinpoint the moment when their lives had merged together beyond the point of painless separation. He knew that it went back past her health scare and his ridiculous notion of going to Haxby.

_Ah, Haxby, what a folly that would have been. You dodged one there, mate._

He remembered something she'd said at the time, something to which he had not attached particular significance. _'But will you be happy? That's what I want to know.'_ Such selfless concern on her part; could he dare, in retrospect, to call it love?

He'd spoken true when he said he would regret leaving Downton every second of every day. He'd been honest when he told her that he was going because Lady Mary needed him and that was one of the reasons, but he had not told her everything. Though Sir Richard's attitude towards his own wealth offended Mr. Carson, one had to admit that it is unrealistic not to think of money. If only the nouveau riche understood that speaking of money so openly was vulgar. Still, the salary the newspaper man had offered would have allowed Mr. Carson to retire in style in less than 5 years. He would only have to be apart from her for a short time. Looking back, Mr. Carson realized that Mrs. Hughes had figured prominently in his thoughts of retirement even then.

No, he could not say when it had happened, but their fates were inextricably intertwined and there was no denying it.

_Like the holly and the ivy._ It was an apt metaphor considering the time of year. The woods around Downton were full of examples of this partnership; the prickly holly entangled with the gently resilient ivy. The ivy's broad, green leaves softened the sharp edges of the proud holly tree. They could exist separately, but after years of comingling, any attempt to separate the two plants would result in the death of both.

The bus pulled to a stop beside the war memorial. Most of the people on the bus hardly acknowledged the marble structure. _How quickly we forget,_ he thought to himself. Mr. Carson forced himself to ignore the dog sniffing around the base of the memorial and focused on his walk back to Downton.

The day was frosty. The air that filled his lungs was fresh and crisp. There was a hint of snow in the air. The world spoke to him of promise. The new year was just around the corner. The days would start to get longer now that they were past the solstice.

If he'd been lucky, Elsie would not know where he had been. He wasn't hiding it from her exactly, but he wanted to surprise her with the news that he'd completed on the house and gauge her reaction. He knew she would be happy for him, but would he see an inkling of regret behind her well wishes; longing?

Then he imagined telling her the whole truth. What would she think when he told her what he had done for them? In his scenarios she ranged from passionately angry to coldly grateful and every stop in between. Not surprisingly, he found that the response he would much prefer was passionately grateful.

_She won't be angry,_ he told himself. _Not when she realizes that I've done this for her. Not when she realizes _why_ I've done this for her._

The cluster of village buildings fell behind him swiftly as Charles Carson walked briskly. He replayed in his head all the positive responses he might receive to his offer of a stable future. They seemed more likely than the negative ones he would not dwell on. His face flushed with the exercise and a touch of embarrassment when his active imagination envisioned her jumping into his arms in joy. He knew Elsie Hughes would never be so demonstrative as that, but the prospect made him smile broadly nonetheless.

His head was held high and he gained confidence with each step towards Downton. He was a man of property now. Finally, he had something concrete to offer her. He had the means to make their dream come true.

At the back door Mr. Carson had to compose himself and wipe the smile from his face. He was not ready to tell her everything yet. He could not risk being interrupted. Christmas Eve was the best chance to find a moment alone. Mr. Carson only hoped his heart would not burst with happy expectation before then.

The door had barely closed behind him when Mrs. Patmore came rushing out of the kitchen.

"She knows," the cook hissed at him in a sharp whisper. "I tried not to tell, but…"

"Don't worry, Mrs. Patmore," Mr. Carson assured the flustered woman. "I only said not to bother her with my whereabouts. I didn't mean for you to keep it from her if she asked you outright, only not to volunteer the information."

"Oh," Mrs. Patmore said with a perplexed look. "I wish I'd known that an hour ago. I wouldn't have been so mysterious."

"You are many things, Mrs. Patmore," Mr. Carson smiled. "But mysterious is not one of them."

Mrs. Patmore wanted to be offended, but his smile was mischievous and contagious. She thought that boded well for Mrs. Hughes, very well indeed.

"Mrs. Hughes is correct, Mr. Carson, you are a daft man," she snorted with a grin before returning to her kitchen kingdom.

Mr. Carson returned his coat and hat to his room. He walked into the servant's hall ostensibly to see if he was needed in any matter. The room was empty, as it should be at this time of day. He took the opportunity to quickly check his appearance in the full length mirror at the base of the stairs. Mr. Carson pulled down at this waistcoat and the dignified man in the mirror smiled back at him. He did not see Mrs. Patmore catch him in the act.

He didn't bother to knock on the door as he entered, but announced himself with a clearing of his throat.

"Shut your eyes!" She admonished before he could begin his announcement. Her voice was high and she sounded chipper. He obeyed her, shielding his eyes from where she sat and turning back to close the door behind him.

Why hide the presents from him? Every year they exchanged practically the same gifts. She would buy him a tin of shaving soap and sometimes a new brush. He would buy her a book. This year he had settled on 'The Painted Veil' by Somerset Maugham. Mrs. Lewis at the bookshop in Thirsk had recommended it over 'The Man in the Brown Suit', the mystery novel he'd almost bought.

These thoughts flashed through his head in a thrice.

"I thought you'd like to know," he began with his eyes still shut and his hand held to his face. "I've bought the house. We've completed."

Mrs. Hughes looked up from her wrapping with genuine surprise and joy. Besides enjoying the sight of a grown man hiding his eyes like a child, she was delighted that he would share this news with her. She'd known about this development, but she hadn't expected him to tell her so soon.

"Why, I'm pleased. That's a nice thing to know before Christmas." The paper fully concealed the box she was wrapping and she decided to release him from his darkness. "You can open them now."

Mr. Carson dropped his hand and stole a quick glance towards the package she was wrapping, despite himself. It did look like it could hold a tin of shaving soap. His normal chair beside the door was piled high with boxes of he knew not what. Lady Grantham's gift stipend had been very generous this year. It looked as though Mrs. Hughes had bought half the fabric in Yorkshire for the maids and all the chocolates.

So his usual chair was filled as was the other chair beside the table. A bit thrown off by this change in routine, Mr. Carson made a noise that was half bemused surprise and half stubborn frustration. Mrs. Hughes returned resolutely to her wrapping. Her calm exterior belied her innermost thoughts.

_He's bought the house. Without me._ He was one step closer from leaving her behind. She was grateful that she'd had some warning from Mrs. Patmore about Mr. Carson buying the house today. She was also grateful for the distraction provided by the mountains of gifts to be wrapped. Without that distraction, she might not have been able to hide her personal disappointment from him. Instead, she was able to express only joy for his accomplishment.

_She took that well,_ he thought. _ It may be a good think she already knew. No need to dwell on it, however. Give her a chance to get used to the idea. _

"Will we be a big party?" He asked conversationally. He'd not yet been informed of the final numbers for Christmas. He trusted her to tell him what he needed to know. He was fairly certain it would just be the family. She would have mentioned otherwise.

"Family really," she answered as she selected a ribbon. Mr. Carson settled in her desk chair, feeling odd in the small chair. He couldn't remember ever having sat in it before. "Mr. Atticus and Lady Rose are coming, which is nice."

"His parents won't bother with Christmas," he noted sensibly, or so he thought.

Mrs. Hughes rolled her eyes as she continued wrapping. "Don't start."

Not entirely sure what he'd said that was wrong, Mr. Carson pushed quickly on. "Then I gather they're off to New York in January when Mr. Branson goes to Boston?" They both knew this perfectly well, but he wanted to change the subject.

"Yeah," she sighed wistfully, still focused on her wrapping. "I'll miss him, I don't mind admitting it."

Mr. Carson could only nod. He didn't want to admit how sorry he would be to see Miss Sybbie leave.

"I know you're uncomfortable with him," she looked up from tying the bow. "But I feel he's a sort of bridge between us all."

_She says that like it's a good thing._

"I'm _used_ to him. I'll say that," Mr. Carson conceded. Mrs. Hughes eyed him with bemused shock. He appeared to be genuinely saddened by Mr. Branson's approaching departure. _It's the child he'll miss,_ she thought.

"Heavens, don't let him hear," she needled gently. "It'll go straight to his head."

Mr. Carson accepted her teasing with a chuckle. Maybe he should mention his thoughts on Sybbie. She probably already suspected he harbored a soft spot for the child. Before he could confess his sentimentality to her, there was a knock on the door. It was Mr. Molesley.

_Who else would it be? _He thought wryly.

The now official first footman leaned into the room.

"Ah, Mr. Carson, might I trouble you for a moment, please?"

With a shrug and a look that seemed to say, 'Why do I bother sitting down?', Mr. Carson took his leave.

Mrs. Hughes smiled at him before he left. As the door closed behind Mr. Carson and Mr. Molesley, she let the smile fade.

Was it possible to be envious of an inanimate object? Mrs. Hughes thought it must be, for jealousy was the only word to describe the feeling in her heart when she thought of this new house; _his_ house. Downton was their house. They did not own it, but it had brought them together; kept them together.

This new house was like an exciting young mistress come to seduce Mr. Carson away from his humdrum marriage to Downton. He would spend time there on his days off, making it pretty, slowly building a life beyond Downton until one day…

_That's foolish thinking, lass! _Mrs. Hughes stopped her thoughts there. Her comparison didn't hold. Mr. Carson was not married to Downton, he'd made no promises. If he had, there would be no question of him leaving. _This is Mr. Carson we're talking about after all. _

But the fact remained that he was free to leave whenever he chose. Now that he was a property owner, he might reinvent himself whenever he chose. He was not trapped like she was. It was hard not to be a little bitter at the thought. Mrs. Hughes reminded herself that Mr. Carson would be relying heavily on her advice for the house. The thought cheered her. This house was still something they could share outside of Downton even if they could not share it as fully as she had dreamed.

TBC…

* * *

><p><strong>AN OMG, life is crazy right now (in a good way). I can make no promises for timeliness but I will try.**


	9. Visions of Sugar Plums

Mrs. Hughes walked into a bustling kitchen. Mr. Barrow and Andrew were mixing the punch for tonight's party while the kitchen staff were getting a head start on preparations the family's Christmas dinner the next day. Mrs. Patmore wanted everything as close to oven ready as possible so her girls could enjoy the festivities.

"Oh my," Mrs. Hughes said appreciatively as she surveyed all the activity.

"Taste this, Mrs. Hughes," Andrew said, offering her a cup of punch.

"Maybe you'll write a cookery book, Daisy," the housekeeper suggested with an encouraging smile before taking a sip. "Maybe that's where she's headed."

Daisy and Mrs. Patmore exchanged proud glances.

"Oh, I hope you change your mind about your studies," Mrs. Patmore added. "Start the new year with a new determination. I can't bear for it all to go to waste."

"But you're always complaining to keep me from me work," the under cook protested.

"You know I don't mean it."

"Anything can happen for you," Mrs. Hughes told Daisy bracingly. "It's a wonderful feeling."

"Maybe," Daisy said, sounding unconvinced as Mrs. Hughes approved of the Christmas crackers for the party.

"And if it means a little extra work for me, so be it," Mrs. Patmore asserted a little too loudly to be anything but forced. "And Happy Christmas!"

Daisy and Mrs. Hughes laughed at Mrs. Patmore's animation. The cook really was trying to be supportive of Daisy, but her style of encouragement could never be called nurturing. Mrs. Hughes knew it was difficult for Mrs. Patmore to see her prodigy growing so independent, but the cook managed to put a brave face on. Mrs. Hughes could identify with that; trying to be happy for someone even as they grow beyond needing you.

Not wanting to be under foot, Mrs. Hughes vacated the kitchen, still chuckling to herself. As soon as she was alone in the hallway, she stopped laughing. She could not help but envy Daisy, a young woman with her whole life ahead of her. The world ahead of Daisy held more opportunities than a young Elsie Hughes could ever have dreamed of.

_'Anything can happen for you; it's a wonderful feeling._' She'd said it with the authority of someone who knew from experience, but Mrs. Hughes had never really known that feeling.

_Nor are you likely to, lass._

"Mrs. Hughes?" He'd caught her in a rare melancholy moment. He knew something was wrong, but Mr. Carson didn't know how to fix it. Instead of embarrassing her, he opted to ignore the weakness he'd just witnessed and act as though everything were as it should be. "I have some concerns about the Christmas menu."

"Then you should speak to Mrs. Patmore," she said curtly. She'd been uncharacteristically short with him lately, not that he'd noticed. His high spirits since completing the purchase of his house were unassailable. Truth be told, his cheerfulness was becoming increasingly difficult for her to stomach. She was happy for him, but his constant mirth was proving too much for even her munificence.

"I thought I should speak to you first," he insisted gently.

"Then speak."

He was thrown off by her brusque demeanor. Mr. Carson regretted his decision to make his inquiry, but there was no backing out now. "I'm not sure the food selections are appropriate for…someone like Mr. Atticus."

She rolled her eyes at him and grabbed him by the arm. "Don't parade your prejudice out here in the hallway for the whole staff to hear," she admonished.

"How is it prejudicial to ask an honest question?" Mr. Carson demanded as Mrs. Hughes herded a flustered butler into her office. "If Mrs. Patmore had asked-"

"Mrs. Patmore _has _asked and been answered," Mrs. Hughes assured him. She pointed for him to have a seat beside the door. She moved to her desk chair. "She's cooked for Lord and Lady Sinderby several times now and has learned a great deal about the kosher diet."

"I'm glad to hear it, but I don't see that what I said was so offensive. I was only wondering if a bacon wrapped turkey was the best choice for dinner given Mr. Atticus'_ restrictions."_

"Lady Grantham always insists on the turkey for Christmas," Mrs. Hughes reminded him. "Don't worry. There are other choices on the menu."

"A glazed ham? I'm not sure that's helpful," Mr. Carson challenged. "Why not add lobster while we're at it?"

"You know very well that the Dowager expects her ham." Mrs. Hughes shook her head. "If you must know, Mrs. Patmore is making pheasant and a roast beef for Mr. Atticus."

"Four meat entrees for a small family party of nine? It's extravagant and wasteful," Mr. Carson huffed.

"I've never been wasteful in all my professional life, Mr. Carson, and I'll not be starting now," Mrs. Hughes insisted proudly. "It's all planned. The staff will have turkey soup for luncheon on Boxing Day and beef stew for dinner. We'll send the left over ham to the Dower House as we always do." Left over food was never served to the family, but the Dowager Countess had never objected to receiving yesterday's meats.

Mr. Carson remained silent, knowing that he'd been defeated. He wasn't sure why he'd pressed the issue at all. Lady Grantham, Mrs. Hughes and Mrs. Patmore undoubtedly had considered Mr. Atticus in their meal planning. Maybe he was just trying to prove to Mrs. Hughes that he could be thoughtful about the young man. She seemed determined to think him antisemitic. He didn't understand the ways of Jews, English or otherwise, but Mr. Atticus was part of the family now and Mr. Carson needed to understand better if he was to serve the family.

"Now, kindly leave the meal planning to Mrs. Patmore and myself," she said with finality and turned to her desk. "Stick to your silver and your wine selections, you old booby."

This last was added in an exasperated tone under her breath.

"What did you just call me?"

Mrs. Hughes swiveled back to face an unhappy butler. Mr. Carson's brow furrowed so that it looked as though he had one great eyebrow. She hadn't meant to say it out loud.

"An old booby," Mrs. Hughes reiterated, though with less conviction than before. "But I meant that in the best possible sense."

"_Is_ there a best possible sense?" He asked with his eyebrows now raised and once more independent of each other. This was not a very auspicious beginning to an evening he hoped would secure his future happiness. It would never do for them to be fighting on Christmas Eve, but his feelings were genuinely hurt.

"I only meant that you were being…"

"Ridiculous?" He offered.

"I wouldn't say…"

"Ignorant? Stubborn?"

"Those are your words, Mr. Carson, not mine," she said with a smirk, trying to coax him into a better mood. The tilt of her head and the gleam in her eye told him she'd not meant anything unkind.

He pouted for a few moments before reluctantly giving in to her charms. "The best possible sense, you say?"

"The very best," she promised. "In Scotland, it's practically a term of endearment."

"Old booby?" His frown and tone broadcast his skepticism.

She only nodded for fear she would begin to laugh if she opened her mouth. Something about the way he said the phrase made it sound infinitely absurd.

"If you say so," he finally accepted. "But I'm not old."

"Well, you're not young," she countered and was rewarded with an involuntary chuckle from the defensive butler.

_She has a point there, mate._

"Yes, well, if I were younger, I might better handle this 'brave new world that has such people in't.'" he confessed. "I suppose there are just some things I won't ever get used to."

His sincere admission made Mrs. Hughes feel badly for berating him earlier. He was a snob, to be sure, and a Yorkshire man through and through, but for all that, she knew Mr. Carson wasn't prejudiced in a malicious way. He feared change and things he didn't understand. His narrow experience made him narrow-minded, but he had, on occasion shown he was capable of adapting. After all, he had learned to tolerate Mr. Branson despite the younger man's loyalty to religion and politics with which Mr. Carson vehemently disagreed.

Mrs. Hughes fondly remembered Mr. Carson's reaction to meeting Mr. Ross. He clearly had never met anyone like the jazzman before. If Mr. Carson had ever encountered anyone of African descent before that night, it would have been a delivery boy or servant in London. A suave, erudite gentleman like Mr. Ross was beyond Mr. Carson's experience. His questions to Mr. Ross had been awkward, but sincerely curious.

"I'm sorry for insinuating that you were being prejudiced against Mr. Atticus," she apologized. "It is Christmas Eve and I should have been more generous in my understanding. I know you were just trying to be thoughtful of his needs."

"Just so," Mr. Carson nodded emphatically. The knot in his chest of which he'd been previously unaware began to loosen. They were back in agreement. Tonight's plan was not ruined. "Thank you for acknowledging that, Mrs. Hughes."

"But please remember that he's as much an Englishman as he is Jewish, Mr. Carson. We don't have to make many accommodations for him," Mrs. Hughes advised.

"In fact," she spoke in a tone she reserved for only the most scandalous gossip. Mrs. Hughes leaned forward in her chair and Mr. Carson mimicked her unconsciously so that they were leaning towards each other conspiratorially. "I have it on good authority that he and Lady Rose intend to exchange Christmas presents."

Mr. Carson sat back, cast her a wry grin and was about to speak when a knock on her door stopped him.

"Yes?" Mrs. Hughes answered.

"Mr. Carson, you're wanted upstairs," Mr. Molesley announced.

"Thank you, Mr. Molesley," Mr. Carson answered as he rose.

"And so it starts," Mrs. Hughes commented with an exaggerated sigh as they exchanged knowing smiles. The guests for the Christmas Eve celebration were due within the hour. There would be no rest for the weary once the event began, she was sure.

-00-

"Are we guests or servants tonight?" Daisy asked.

"Both, I should hope," Mrs. Patmore answered.

"I think we're as good as the tenant farmers, thank you very much," Mrs. Hughes quipped. There was more behind those words than anyone could have suspected. She'd been thinking about farming and farmers a lot lately.

Farming was the option she'd rejected on at least two occasions, thinking a stable life in service infinitely preferable to a volatile life on a farm. Now she had to ask herself, was working in a house that was not your own any better or worse than working land that was not your own? She'd given her life to Downton, but it was not her home; the Crawleys could dismiss her whenever it suited them. How long had her father worked their land, only to be forced out when he had a few bad harvests on top of the ill fortune of being saddled with two daughters?

Was the life she'd chosen any more stable in the end? Had she made the right choices? Could she and Becky have been happy with Joe? Would Joe have still wanted to marry her if he'd known about Becky? Why was she thinking of Joe so much lately?

When had she started second guessing herself? She knew the answer to that. Things began to feel wrong, unstable, when Mr. Carson officially bought his house just a few days ago.

She had no room for regrets where Joe was concerned. He'd remarried shortly after she'd turned him away last time, just as he had before. He'd sent her an announcement along with a note asking her to be happy for him. She'd replied that she was happy for them both and it had not been a lie. She may have been Joe's first choice on both occasions, but she was never his only choice. She might not have any money to bring into a marriage, but she had her pride.

Mr. Carson's crisp step sounded down the stairs before she could let her thoughts wander down that oft trodden path again. She enjoyed watching him at events like this. He was a barely contained bundle of nerves and energy. He would spend the rest of the evening worrying about the comfort of every guest. His excitement was contagious and it kept the staff on their toes. She knew that he lived for nights like this and he could run on adrenaline into the wee hours of the morning if the event demanded.

"Mr. Barrow, Andrew, they're starting to arrive." He barely spared her a look; he was all business now. "Mr. Molesley can't manage on his own. If you could bring up the food?"

"Yes, Mr. Carson," Thomas complied. "You take those," he instructed Andy.

Mrs. Hughes stepped back as the two men left with their trays of food. She expected Mr. Carson to return upstairs with his under butler and footman, but instead he followed Mrs. Hughes from the kitchen into the corridor by his office door.

"I wonder if I might have a word later, if such a thing were possible?" Mr. Carson asked, trying to keep the nerves from his voice. His manner was stiff and formal.

"It's possible," she replied, a little confused by his question. Since when did he need to ask in advance to speak to her? Why was he acting so oddly? "Let me know when."

She was so thrown off by his request that she headed off to the servant's hall rather than to her office as she'd initially intended.

Mr. Carson nodded in satisfaction and watched her walk away for a split second before returning to the kitchen. Finding all satisfactory there, he gave a happy grunt and headed back upstairs. The dye was cast. For better or ill, the matter would be decided tonight.

TBC…

* * *

><p><strong>AN I couldn't get it out of my head that The Scene can't have been the first time she called him an old booby. I wanted the phrase to have some significance when she used it, so I extended a pretty innocuous scene. Also, the line about _'Anything can happen for you; it's a wonderful feeling,'_ really struck me as tragic considering Elsie's situation and I wanted to highlight that. It's the other side of '_Go as far in life as God and luck allow.' _  
><strong>

**'Brave New World', the novel wasn't published until 1931, but Mr. Carson was quoting from Shakespeare's ****_The Tempest, _****which was the source of Huxley's title.**


	10. Waiting is a Nightmare

Mr. Carson felt a little out of breath as he reached the door to the Grand Hall. It wasn't his fitness that was failing him, but his nerves. The reality of what he was going to do tonight made him lightheaded. He was going to finally speak to Mrs. Hughes as a man and potential helpmate rather than a coworker. If he was going to convince her to marry him, Mr. Carson knew he would have to drop every protection, every defense and every façade. She would not want to marry a butler; she _might_ be persuaded to marry a man. She certainly deserved a man.

He took a deep breath before pushing through the green baize door into the realm of the butler. His responsibilities could insulate him from his nerves for a little while yet.

Through the course of the evening, he never dared to openly look for her, but Mr. Carson knew where Mrs. Hughes was at all times. Whether she was taking a turn at the punchbowl to spell Mrs. Patmore or speaking soft, supportive words to Anna in a corner, he clocked her every movement looking for his opportunity. He knew that he would need to be near her when the caroling started. The first break in the singing would be a likely moment, but he needed to be close before someone else engaged her. Until then, he purposefully kept a distance between them. He could not risk a conversation with her in public. In his present state of mind, there was no telling what he might say.

Luckily, though luck had very little to do with it, when the singing began, only Miss Baxter separated him from Mrs. Hughes. Usually Mr. Carson enjoyed the carols at Christmas, but his mind was too distracted tonight to attend them properly. He was vaguely aware that he was singing off key. After what felt like an eternity to Mr. Carson, Lord Grantham called for a break in the singing.

_Probably just because his cup has run dry,_ Mr. Carson thought with mild disapproval. He couldn't blame His Lordship for enjoying his reintroduction to liquor, but the boisterous behavior was making Mr. Carson a little uneasy. Lady Grantham didn't look too thrilled either.

People moved back to the refreshment tables. Satisfied that Mr. Molesley, Mr. Barrow and Andrew were filling their trays with punch for the guests, Mr. Carson maneuvered expertly through the crowd. Despite his size, the butler had a skill for navigating crowded rooms without disrupting anyone. He saw it all as a great dance with dozens of dancers. So it was that he found himself standing beside Mrs. Hughes when Mr. Branson gave his short speech of thanks and began the round of 'For He's a Jolly Good Fellow.' At this opportunity, Mr. Carson took his chance.

"Is this a good moment?" He asked in a voice as close as he possessed to a whisper. It was at least low enough that Mr. Barrow did not appear to overhear from beside Mrs. Hughes.

"It is if you want it to be."

-00-

Mrs. Hughes tried not to let her eyes follow him around the room all night as Mr. Carson strutted proudly and watched his footmen like a hawk. A round of punch and canapés had to be served before the caroling could begin. He was unlikely to relax before then. Though it was far from over, Mrs. Hughes felt comfortable calling the event a success. The only thing lacking was his presence beside her. She could not think of any event at Downton where he had not sought her out in the course of the affair to ask her opinion of the happenings or to compliment her planning skills. Though no one else would notice it, Mrs. Hughes realized that Mr. Carson was avoiding her.

The realization unsteadied her, but she was grateful for the space. Perhaps, like herself, he was distracted by their impending appointment. Distracted was an understatement. As she ladled out punch, her mind whirled with speculation. Why would he need to make a point to ask to speak to her tonight? He hadn't even mentioned sherry or wine, just speaking; 'having a word'.

_What could be that serious?_ Then the answer landed on her like a ton of bricks. He was going to tell her that he was retiring as soon as his house was ready. She almost spilled the cup she was filling. That had to be it. Professional courtesy and their friendship would dictate that he tell her before telling anyone else; perhaps even before telling His Lordship.

"I'm back," Mrs. Patmore informed Mrs. Hughes. "Thank you for giving me a break. I wanted a word with Mrs. Lumley. Her boy was in the war with our Archie and she was ever so kind to write to me after the memorial."

"I'm glad to help," Mrs. Hughes assured the cook.

Mrs. Patmore considered the filled cups with a bemused look. "You did more than help. Were you expecting a run on the punch?"

Mrs. Hughes looked down at her handiwork. The table was full. In her distracted state, she had used all of the cups and had almost emptied the punch bowl.

"Is there something going on?" Mrs. Patmore asked suspiciously.

"Why would you think that?" Mrs. Hughes answered defensively.

The cook merely gestured at the table.

"I was thinking about Mr. Bates and Anna," Mrs. Hughes lied. "I guess I wasn't paying attention to what I was doing."

Mrs. Patmore seemed less than convinced. Mrs. Hughes was at a loss, but she was saved when she spotted Anna. "There she is now. If you'll excuse me, Mrs. Patmore. Anna," she called after the listless lady's maid.

"Did you have a chance to open your present?" Mrs. Hughes asked as Mrs. Patmore watched her from her spot behind the punch table.

"I did," Anna replied with a slight increase in animation. "It's a beautiful frame, but I don't understand what you mean about it being charmed."

"It's a silly notion of Mr. Carson's, but I think it might have some merit," Mrs. Hughes explained.

"I'm still not sure I understand you, but I did as you asked and transferred our wedding picture from its usual wooden frame into the silver one." Anna shrugged in a gesture of powerlessness. "At this point I'm willing to try anything."

"I'm sure His Lordship's message about what Mr. Molesley and Miss Baxter found has reached Ireland by now," Mrs. Hughes said comfortingly. "Mr. Bates will be home anytime now. You'll see."

"But will that mean this nightmare is over or that it will just begin again?" Anna wondered.

"I wish I knew, my girl," Mrs. Hughes answered honestly. "But the first order is to have you both home. I know you can face whatever comes so long as you are together."

"How can you be so certain?"

"Because I've seen it first hand," Mrs. Hughes told her with a wink. "Come on now, the singing is about to start."

Anna and Mrs. Hughes headed towards the tree where Mr. Carson was visible above the heads of the assembly. Mrs. Hughes found herself very eager for the singing to begin. Mr. Carson always stood beside her for the caroling. Maybe he'd give her that superior grin of his when she mispronounced Wenceslas. She was disappointed, therefore, when she found Miss Baxter standing beside Mr. Carson. He did not even look at her as the music began. It wouldn't do to cause a scene, so Mrs. Hughes stood dutifully between Anna and Miss Baxter. During the singing, she tried to focus on Anna, giving the young woman encouraging smiles whenever their eyes met.

When Lord Grantham drunkenly interrupted the singing, Anna and Mrs. Hughes joined the crowd near the punch table.

"Am I to take that as a direct order, do you think?" Anna joked about His Lordship singling her out.

"I think you should," Mrs. Hughes laughed and pointed towards the table full of punch. Mrs. Hughes remained where she was. She could sense that Mr. Carson was standing behind her. She turned to him, but before she could speak Tom's voice rose over the din in the Grand Hall.

Frustrated at the interruption, Mrs. Hughes reluctantly joined in on the round of 'For He's a Jolly Good Fellow.'

"Is this a good moment?" His voice cut through the singing voices, catching her off guard.

"It is if you want it to be," she answered, trying to hide her surprise and her trepidation.

She had not expected him to interrupt the singing. She had not expected him to seek her out until much later in the evening, perhaps after some of the guests had left. She opened her mouth to say as much but thought better of it.

Very seriously, Mr. Carson gestured for her to lead the way downstairs. Mrs. Hughes complied. She paused as the clapping ended and Tom announced that Lady Mary would be singing. With a sigh, Mrs. Hughes stopped where she stood and turned back towards the tree. Mr. Carson never missed the opportunity to hear Lady Mary sing. Listening to his favorite daughter of the house would surely take precedence over telling Mrs. Hughes that he was abandoning her.

To her utter shock, Mr. Carson's steps towards the green baize door did not slow or falter. He reached the door and looked back for her. The look on his face was one of confusion and maybe even consternation. She could see that he was nervous about telling her his news, but she was gratified to know that it was more important to him than Lady Mary's singing.

To cover for her delay, Mrs. Hughes grabbed two cups of punch from Andrew's tray as she passed him. This placated Mr. Carson and he gave a curt nod. He held the door open for her, but his long strides soon carried him before her.

TBC…

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><p><strong>AN I'm back! I thought we'd have a little He Saw/ She Saw for the upstairs party. THE Scene is next...**

**Thoughts, comments, pledges of devotion, etc are always appreciated;)**


	11. Love's Young Dream

Mr. Carson led the way downstairs with deliberate strides. His stomach was in knots. The sensation reminded him of the stage fright he'd experienced before every performance. He felt ill with a giddy expectation. He'd always fretted over remembering his lines and hitting his marks but the stakes were much higher now. Instead of a theatre full of demanding, if not discerning, punters he faced an audience of one; the most important audience of his life. He'd never been so nervous. The confidence that had followed him the past few days had suddenly deserted him.

He was only vaguely aware of Mrs. Hughes scurrying behind him, trying to match his pace but avoid spilling the punch she carried. She could hardly fathom his behavior; it was disorienting and a little frightening. He stalked into his office, allowed her to pass him and closed the door behind them. This confused her even more. No one was likely to come down here, why should he close the door? Ignoring the fluttering feeling behind her navel, she offered him one of the cups of punch.

_I will be happy for him. I will be happy for him. No matter what he says, I will be happy for him,_ she promised herself.

"I don't think I should." _I'll probably vomit._ Mr. Carson declined the beverage with a wave of his hands. Grigg had always laughed at Carson's nerves before a show. He'd insisted that a stiff drink right before going on stage was the answer. Carson had tried it once and had vomited whiskey stage left.

At the moment, he felt like an actor who had wandered onstage without a costume or a script. He could not think of his line and looked to her to save him.

"Go on. It's Christmas," she encouraged as she tried to press a cup upon him again. "Let's toast your new house." The smile on her face was forced, but the sentiment was sincere.

_I will be happy for him. I will be happy for him. _

_New house?_ Yes, that was what he wanted to speak to her about. He remembered the scene now. He'd rehearsed it a thousand times in his head. Now, if he could only remember his lines.

"Maybe I should mention one thing." His hands fluttered in front of him as if trying to weakly ward off an attack that never came. "You say 'your new house', but it isn't only mine." _It's ours._

"No?" _He found another partner?_ The thought stung.

She clearly didn't understand. He had to make her understand.

"No. I've registered it in both of our names." She blinked at him in apparent astonishment. "I hope you don't mind, but I hate to change a plan when there's no need." There it was. One simply did not alter the perfect plan, she had to understand that. She had been the one to teach him that.

_Why has he done a silly thing like that?_ She wondered testily. It was impossible for her to be angry with him, but she wished he had considered her feelings before taking such a drastic step. Now she had to reject him once again; ruin his dream yet again. It broke her heart to do it, but it would be deceitful to take advantage of his generosity.

_Unless it's not merely generosity…No, there is no 'unless', Elsie Hughes, there is only reality. You must refuse this act of charity. _

"Mr. Carson, I'm very appreciative_, really_, but I can't accept." She spoke as adamantly as she could muster.

Now it was his turn not to understand. He felt like he'd offered his best song and was being booed off stage for it. He was confused and a little hurt. "Why not?"

_Don't make me explain it,_ she sighed with frustration and rolled her eyes. _I don't want to go through all that again._ But his injured expression demanded an answer. He really didn't understand.

"Who knows what the future may hold, or how much longer we'll even be here." She raised her eyes upward as if to indicate the house, but she might have had a higher meaning. "Suppose you want to move away and change your life entirely." _Suppose the sky falls. _ "You don't want to be stuck with me."

He swallowed painfully, his throat threatening to shut down. "But that's the point," he insisted.

"What is?" The hairs on the back of her neck stood up. _What was he saying?  
><em>

"I _do_ want to be stuck with you." _Oh, very romantic, mate, _his inner voice taunted. This wasn't going exactly as he had imagined. _  
><em>

"I'm not convinced I can be hearing this right." _Don't fall for that old trick again, Elsie. Don't fool yourself into believing…_

_You've got to convince her, mate!_

"You are…" _Breathe, Charlie boy!  
><em>

"If you think…" _I'd be lost without you._

"I'm asking you…" _Do it, man!_

"To marry me," he managed laboriously. Each phrase felt like an exhausting battle, but it was worth it.

Mrs. Hughes' mind and body went numb. As a child, she'd fancied herself an ice skater after reading the story of Hans Brinker and the Silver Skates. She'd fallen through the thin ice on the watering trough after one step and had fallen into the shallow, icy water. The cold had been so severe that she'd nearly gone into shock. That experience had nothing on this. As a girl, she'd only fallen through to her knees. Now, she felt as if her whole body was submerged in the frigid water. She couldn't breathe. The whole world was frozen.

Mr. Carson waited for what felt like an eternity. It was like the interminable silence that followed a particularly difficult song and dance. Had the audience understood? Would they appreciate the effort that had gone into the number? Her expression was unreadable. _Was that disappointment or shock?_ He had to know. "Well?"

"Well," she found her breath, but only just. She shook her head and tried to focus on something in the room, fixating on the studs of his shirt. "You could knock me down with a feather."

_Is that good or bad?_ He took comfort in the fact that it wasn't a definitely negative reaction. It was like the first, tentative smattering of applause in an empty theatre. "You're not offended?" Insulting her was the last thing he would ever want to do.

His earnest concern at having upset her helped Mrs. Hughes focus on the moment. _Daft man,_ she half laughed to herself. _How could any woman be offended by being asked to become Mrs. Carson?_ "Mr. Carson, I can assure you the very last thing in the world that I am at this moment is offended."

_That's very promising_, he thought with relief. He felt a flutter of hope. Something about the way she said his name… _But she still hasn't answered the question._

She was stalling for time. She was touched, truly and deeply touched, but Mrs. Hughes knew she could not accept his offer unless she was sure of his motivations. He could just be offering this out of a sense of charity or friendship. Or maybe, like Joe, he just wanted a wife to share his declining years. If he was just seeking companionship for his retirement, Mr. Carson wasn't the type to look much beyond the obvious choices. It was either her or Mrs. Patmore and Mrs. Patmore wasn't a good match, no matter how good her apple Charlotte might be.

She wanted to believe, part of her already believed, that his offer was born from a true affection for her, but she was afraid of fooling herself. It would hurt too much if she was mistaken. She only needed a little more assurance from him, even the smallest encouragement would do.

_She can't answer until she's sure of how you feel, mate. Tell her…but don't spook her!_

Like a groom with a spirited horse, Mr. Carson forced his voice to remain even despite the excitement that threatened to overpower him. "You can take as long as you like, I won't press you because one thing I do know;" _I love you and only you._ "I'm not marrying anyone else."

Her body tingled from within as the icy numbness was washed away by a wave of warmth. The thrill of being loved suffused her with happiness and calm. Her smile deepened, her eyes softened and she took her first full breath in minutes. This wasn't an offer for a marriage of convenience. This wasn't one friend just looking out for another. This was love. He hadn't said the words aloud, but she heard them all the same.

Joe was a nice man, but he had a farmer's mentality and a practical view on marriage. He would have married anyone. Apparently, Charles Carson was not as practical a man when it came to matters of the heart. His hopeful expression told her as surely as his words; he wanted to marry _her_ and no one else but her. He could love no one but her. It might seem a small thing to someone looking at it from the outside, but it was everything to Elsie Hughes.

Mrs. Hughes recovered her wits just enough to finally push the punch into his hands. He took the delicate crystal in his two great hands, careful not to touch her.

"Well then," she said, demurely looking down at her shoes before daring to look up into his adorably perplexed face.

"What exactly are we celebrating?" He looked childlike in his vulnerability. She could not resist the urge to tease him just a very little.

"We're celebrating the fact that I can still get a proposal at my age."

Her cheeky and radiant smile almost convinced him that she'd accepted him, but he needed to hear the words.

"And that's it?" _Blast it, man, you said you wouldn't press!_

_So much for not rushing me into a decision,_ she smiled to herself at his eager impatience. She shook her head and pressed her free hand to her chest. Mr. Carson could not tell if she was near tears or laughter. He was quite sure that he was near tears. She stepped closer to him; very close.

"Of course I'll marry you, you old booby," she chuckled through her gathering tears of joy.

All the tension and the doubt that had gripped his heart to this point released in an instant. His breathing became normal but his eyes began to prickle with impending tears. She had accepted him. Their dream had risen from the ashes stronger than before; not just an investment together, but a marriage.

"I thought you'd never ask."

His emotions overwhelmed him as her words sunk in. He realized that she had never really given up on their dream. She'd only been waiting for a foolish old booby to claim the incredible gift that was her heart. It was a gift that had long been his for the taking if he'd only let himself see. At this revelation, his throat seized completely and he fought back tears. He looked down, ashamed but not ashamed of his sentimental display.

She lay her hand on his arm and he finally looked into her eyes. Neither of them could speak, but they didn't need words. Twenty years of the unspoken words between them was expressed in that glance.

_I love you.  
><em>

_ I've loved you for so long. _

_I've been a fool. Thank you for waiting for me._

_Thank you for loving me. _

_I promise to make you happy._

_You've already made me happy._

_I'm still afraid, but I trust you._

_Whatever comes, we'll always be together._

Her hand tightened on his arm. He nodded infinitesimally.

_Together. Always.  
><em>

TBC…

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><p><strong>AN I'm ending the update here because this is where the scene ends. Any subsequent chapters will be purest speculation. **

**The acting, the writing, the editing, the sound design, the set design, the costume design, the hair and makeup for this scene were all just perfection. It's hard to mess with perfection. I hope you like my little embellishments.**


	12. Joyful and Triumphant

They stood in his pantry, physically connected by a hand on an arm, but more closely connected by a solemn promise.

Charles wanted to say something, but he could not speak around the heart beating in his throat. He looked into the eyes of his future bride and felt calm; reassured. She did not expect him to speak. She seemed to instinctively understand that spoken words could only dilute the moment.

_ 'Know when to leave the stage, Charlie boy,'_ Grigg had once told the less cheerful of the Charlies. '_Don't get greedy. When you can't do any better, you can only do worse.'_

It was the only good advice Grigg had ever given him and it certainly applied here. He'd offered and she had accepted him. The moment was perfect. He should stop there. Yes, there were many details and logistics to discuss, but none of that mattered now. The promise had been given, his future happiness secured. If he said anything more, he was only likely to muck it up.

Elsie watched him struggling to speak. She remembered one of his favorite Shakespearean quotes; 'Silence is the perfectest herald of joy; I were but little happy if I could say how much.' She wondered if he was thinking the same.

Charles saw her smile deepen and felt her hand squeeze his arm again. _You're one lucky duffer, mate,_ he thought. Then a saying from his grandfather jumped into his head. _'If you don't open your mouth, lad, you can't put your foot in it.'_

Content not to speak, Charles became acutely aware of the drink he held. He swallowed audibly and his eyes flickered to the punch. He was a little disoriented. Weren't they were supposed to be toasting something? What was it? Their new house? The fact that she could still get a proposal? Her acceptance? All of these and so much more?

Reading his mind, Mrs. Hughes began to raise her crystal cup to her lips. _My Mrs. Hughes_, he thought with a grin as he mirrored her movements. Charles licked his lips in anticipation. Their lips touched the rim of their cups at the same moment, watching each other over the opposite edge of the cup. Charles sipped slowly, an act both innocent and sensual. Even though he was not tasting her lips directly, he knew exactly how her lips tasted at that instant. The flavors dancing on her tongue also danced on his. They shared these sensations despite keeping a chaste distance.

Charles had read of lovers separated by miles who take solace in the knowledge that they are looking at the same stars. He'd always dismissed this as a silly, sentimental notion, but he understood now. Simultaneously sipping their punch together was a sort of kissing by proxy. He watched as she finished her drink and licked her lips. His own tongue darted out to catch the last of his punch and then something wet hit his nose.

Startled, Charles looked down at the slice of lemon that had flopped onto his nose out of the tipped cup. The room filled with the sweet and sparkling laughter of his fiancé. Grinning, Charles set the cup on his desk and reached for his handkerchief but Mrs. Hughes was too quick for him. She'd already set down her own empty cup and retrieved her soft and simply embroidered handkerchief. Her right hand still rested on his arm as she reached up to dab at his nose with her left.

Charles held his breath at first, startled by her boldness. Even when he was ill, he could not remember her touching his face. She might have wiped his forehead when he was fighting Spanish Flu, but he had no recollection. When he did breathe in, his lungs were filled with the scent of lavender and vanilla. It was the smell he associated with her, but he'd never inhaled it so deeply before. The effect was intoxicating. He closed his eyes and sighed.

Elsie couldn't believe how much self-control it took for her not to caress his face when he sighed like that. One day she would have that opportunity; that right. _But not yet_, she reminded herself.

Charles opened his eyes. She was still patting his nose dreamily. He reached up and gently took her hand. His large hand covered hers and swallowed up the handkerchief as well. _'My nose is quite dry now,'_ his smirk said.

She smiled guiltily up at him. She released his arm and brought her other hand up to cover his. She held Charles' hand in both of hers level with her face. She felt his hand twitch as if he wanted to reach out and stroke her face or her hair. Elsie wanted to kiss his hand, wanted to seal their promise with some physical exchange but she was afraid he might think it improper. There would be other opportunities, she thought.

Noise from the upstairs party grew louder as someone opened the upstairs door. Feet sounded on the stairs as someone hurried down and into the kitchen. Judging by the stamping feet, it was Molesley or Andrew.

"Just leave the glasses in the kitchen and bring up the last of the punch," Thomas called down.

Mr. Carson frowned. He hated when Thomas just shouted down the stairs. It was lazy. Orders should be given face to face. He had half a mind to open the door to go up to remind Thomas. He started to turn towards the door but he felt her squeeze his hand and turned to see her amused face.

_Let it go; it's Christmas_, her expression said.

She'd caught him and he couldn't deny it. He rolled his eyes in a rare show of self-deprecation.

They stood, holding hands and listening as the unidentified footman clambered back up the stairs. They heard the door close. They knew it was time to return to the party. They would be missed soon.

They left the glasses on his desk. He opened the door and ushered her out of the office. His movements were sure and graceful again, unlike his nervous movements from earlier in the evening. He followed her closely up the stairs, a hand hovering near the small of her back.

They could hear Lord Grantham's voice raised on the other side of the door; in another world. Before she opened the green baize door, they shared a knowing glance and a deep, fortifying breath. Once they walked through the doorway, they were butler and housekeeper again. Mr. Carson found that the faculty of speech had returned to him.

Ignoring Lord Grantham, he leaned down and asked, "Sherry tonight?"

Had his voice always sounded so seductive when he invited her for their evening sherry, she wondered before giving him a warm smile and a tiny nod.

Nothing had changed between them, he thought. _Nothing and everything._

Lord Grantham was done speaking. People were clapping. A carol began, 'O Come All Ye Faithful'. The newly engaged couple walked past Anna and stood near the back of the assembly with some of the tenant farmers.

No one observing them would have found anything odd in their demeanor. Perhaps the butler stood a little straighter than usual. Perhaps his chest puffed out a bit more. Perhaps a smug smile pulled at the corners of the housekeeper's mouth. Perhaps her eyes shone more brightly than they had twenty minutes ago. Perhaps they were transformed from the inside out, but no one was observing them.

TBC…

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><p><strong>AN Thank you for the thoughtful reviews. I'm going to TRY to keep this speculation realistic...so I'll not be going anywhere near M. **

**I would try to venture a guess as to how many more chapters to expect, but I am always wrong. It will be more than 3 but less than 100.**


	13. A Tea Cup of Oloroso

**AN/ Purest speculation from here on out. Maybe slightly less interior monologue. **

* * *

><p>"I see you've anticipated me," Mr. Carson said, indicating the tray with the sherry decanter and two tiny, crystal glasses.<p>

"Are they finally gone, then?" Mrs. Hughes asked of the smug looking butler standing in her doorway.

"Andrew is ushering the last of them out now," Mr. Carson informed her. "Thomas is handling the final rounds upstairs and I said I'd lock up down here."

"So they won't be coming back down tonight?" The question sounded more seductive than she'd intended and she blushed.

He enjoyed how the pink washed over her cheeks. "There's no reason for them to."

Mrs. Hughes wasn't sure why she was so shy with him all of a sudden. It wasn't as though they were alone downstairs. The kitchen maids were making a minor racket as they washed up quickly but carefully. Mrs. Patmore had promised them a late start in the morning if they didn't break anything.

"Well, don't linger in the doorway, Mr. Carson," she invited with a tenderness she usually hid from him. He smiled at her, enjoying the new way she said his name.

"I thought we might open an Oloroso for this evening," he held up a small bottle Mrs. Hughes had never seen before.

"Is there a special occasion you're celebrating?" She asked with a sassy grin.

"It's Christmas," he smiled back, matching her sass. Mr. Carson entered her sitting room and poured two ample portions into the glasses. He handed one glass to her.

Mrs. Hughes smiled up at him happily. He looked so confident and relaxed; himself yet open. Things were finally decided between them and the last walls around his heart were down.

"You should close the door before we're interrupted," Mrs. Hughes suggested as she considered the wine. The liquid was richer in color than their usual sherry. She smelled a sweet, nutty fragrance when she wafted the glass underneath her nose.

Mr. Carson nodded in agreement and turned back to her open door. He did not want any disruptions this evening. He'd finally come to grips with the reality that she'd accepted him. He was eager to speak to her about their future. His emotions had been too raw earlier in the evening to do so. He might even be able to tell her…

"Oh, thank you, Mr. Carson! I could surely do with a nip," the excited cook exclaimed as she rumbled through the door and took his sherry from him. She promptly plunked herself down in the chair nearest Mrs. Hughes' desk; the one Mr. Carson had planned to sit in. "You'll never guess what's happened!"

Mrs. Hughes would have laughed at the flabbergasted expression on Mr. Carson's face if she wasn't equally put out by Mrs. Patmore's presence. "Mrs. Patmore," she began calmly, but Mrs. Patmore was not in any state to listen to any words of dismissal.

"Pour yourself a drink and sit down, Mr. Carson," the stout woman ordered. She looked around and it dawned on her that there were only two glasses. She downed her drink in one gulp and held the empty glass up to him. Mr. Carson looked at her as though she were trying to hand him a bomb.

"Suit yourself," she shrugged and poured another portion for herself. "Get another glass, if you like, or there's a tea cup behind you. But be quick about it. I've some news that you'll both want to hear."

"Can it not wait until the morning?" Mrs. Hughes urged hopefully, seeing that Mr. Carson was about to explode at the unsuspecting cook.

"Well, if you don't want to know that Mr. Bates is back…" Mrs. Patmore said with exaggerated nonchalance.

"What!?" Mr. Carson and Mrs. Hughes demanded in unison.

"Are you certain?" Mrs. Hughes asked.

"Saw him with my own two eyes, didn't I?" Mrs. Patmore said with satisfaction now that she'd gotten the response she'd hoped for. She sipped triumphantly at the sherry. "This is the good stuff, innit, Mr. Carson? What's the special occasion?"

"Christmas," he mumbled absently, still in shock. How had Mr. Bates come back without his knowing? To be fair, he had been a little preoccupied. Mr. Carson took a teacup from a shelf behind him and poured it full of sherry before sitting down in the chair beside the door. "When did you see him?"

"When the second round of caroling started up. He snuck up and surprised Anna. Haven't seen either of them since, if you know what I mean." She gave Mrs. Hughes a cheeky grin. The sherry was not her first 'nip' of the evening and the Oloroso had a higher alcohol content than the usual sherry.

"Thomas won't like giving up being His Lordship's valet," Mr. Carson commented into his drink, more to himself than to anyone.

"Anna's husband returns home after months of hiding from the law in another country, months of separation, and all you can think of is how it affects staffing?" Mrs. Hughes asked incredulously.

"It's my job," he frowned at her seriously. "And yours too. After all, are you sure that Lady Mary was attended tonight?"

"All of the lady's maids were given the night off," Mrs. Hughes answered him sternly, but then her face changed. "Oh, dear, I need to make sure I have someone to cover for Anna tomorrow. They should be left to enjoy their reunion."

Mr. Carson raised his eyebrows but wisely stopped himself from asking who was worried about staffing now. Mrs. Hughes accepted the silent criticism with a smirk.

"How did he look?" Mrs. Hughes asked Mrs. Patmore.

"Healthy," Mrs. Patmore assessed. "And very happy."

"I imagine he's relieved to be home," Mr. Carson nodded. "This is good news. Thank you for telling us, Mrs. Patmore. Now I think Mrs. Hughes and I need to discuss how this will impact the household plans for the week." His tone left no question that she was being dismissed.

"Oh, urhm, alright," Mrs. Patmore faltered. Her sherry was gone and she had nothing else to tell them so she set down her glass and rose. Mr. Carson also stood. He held the door open for her.

"Good night, Mrs. Patmore," Mrs. Hughes called pleasantly after her departing friend.

"And a good night to y–" The cook was cut off midsentence as Mr. Carson closed the door firmly in her face.

Mrs. Hughes tried to scowl at Mr. Carson for his rudeness, but her stern countenance devolved into silent laughter, hiding her smile behind her hand. Mr. Carson sat down beside her, set his half empty cup on the table, and pulled the chair away from the wall to be closer to her. Their knees were almost touching.

"Do you think I was too harsh?" He asked, clearly not caring if the answer was yes.

"Perhaps a little."

"Shall I call her back and apologize?" He offered.

"That won't be necessary," she stopped him with a wide grin. "You can apologize just as well in the morning. And if you hadn't been so brusque, she'd have lingered all night," Mrs. Hughes admitted.

"Well, we couldn't have that, could we?"

She shook her head as she set aside her sherry glass. She reached out and offered him her hand. Mr. Carson took it immediately.

"So, you haven't changed your mind now that you've had time to think on it?" Mr. Carson asked.

"The more I think of it, the happier I am," she beamed back at him.

"I know there are a lot of questions to be answered about timing and logistics and…"

"None of that worries me, Mr. Carson," she assured him. "But there is one thing we need to settle tonight. It wouldn't do to leave it until tomorrow."

Her suddenly serious tone worried him. He sat up a little straighter and held her hand a little tighter. "What's that?"

"I just need to say…" Mrs. Hughes took a deep breath and looked directly into his concerned eyes. "What you've done…suggesting we buy a house and…what you did tonight…was brave; so very brave."

Mr. Carson didn't respond. He didn't want to interrupt her. Whatever she wanted to say was obviously important to her.

"Even talking about retirement was the first big step. I'll admit that I've been nudging and pushing for you to open up to me for the past few years, maybe longer, but I was never brave enough to take any big step, only little ones. Until now."

She drew her chair towards him. His pinstripe clad knees parted to allow her to scoot even closer. Charles could feel her knees pressed between his. His heartbeat quickened and his breathing became shallow. He felt hypnotized like a bird caught in a cobras gaze in Mr. Kipling's story.

"You left me one very big step. I doubt what I have to say will come as a surprise to you. If it wasn't true, I wouldn't have accepted your proposal, but I think you'll agree that it needs to be said."

"I'm not convinced I can be hearing this right," he said in a low, breathy voice.

"_You are_ if you think I'm telling you that I love you." Her voice almost failed her. Tears filled her eyes but did not spill over. "I love you, Charles Carson."

Elsie gripped his hands tightly. "I've never said that to any man before because I've never felt this way before. It feels wonderful to say it."

"Not half so wonderful as it is to hear it," Charles insisted.

"I wouldn't know," she teased, leaning towards him.

"Let me remedy that," he smiled and leaned closer to her. "Elsie Hughes, I love you."

For the second time that evening, Charles was close to tears, overwhelmed by the sweet novelty of expressing his feelings. Their eyes were locked and their hands entwined as their face drew closer together. She could smell the sherry on his breath; sweet and rich. He was aware of his hands shaking as he held hers. Her proximity was too much temptation for him to resist. Before Elsie knew what he was doing, Charles leaned down and pressed his lips to the back of one of her hands.

When he straightened back up, he backed away slightly. _That was too close,_ he thought with a shudder, but he could not regret his actions. He took up the sherry in the tea cup and finished it in one swig.

"You were right," she said. "It is even more wonderful to hear than to say."

"And here I was about to admit that I was wrong. It felt beyond wonderful to finally say it."

He'd only ever said 'I love you' to one other woman in his adult life but it hadn't been like this. He'd been pleading with Alice not to reject him. _'But I love you.'_ How very different it felt to simply say, 'I love you' and have it accepted. Not just accepted, but reciprocated.

As if reading his mind, Elsie asked, "But you've said it before."

"When I was young and woefully mistaken," Charles insisted. It hurt to think that she might compare herself to Alice. There was no comparison in his mind. "I was like a child who encounters a pond and calls it the sea. Now I am a man who has discovered the ocean. What I felt for her was nothing compared to what I feel now."

She could see the earnest truth in his eyes. She reached up and touched his cheek where a lone tear had fallen from his eye.

"I understand," she whispered.

_You always do,_ he thought.

They began to lean towards one another again. They were improperly close; dangerously close, but neither seemed to care.

There was a thud, a grunt and a curse as Mrs. Patmore collided with the locked door. Mr. Carson and Mrs. Hughes separated and pushed their chairs back to a respectable distance. Mr. Carson rose and opened the door.

"What's the meaning of locking the door?" Mrs. Patmore blustered. "I nearly broke my beak just now."

"I must have locked it by accident. I'm sorry," Mr. Carson apologized. Mrs. Patmore looked at him skeptically.

"Yes, well, I just wanted to let you know that Liam came down to steal a biscuit so I sent him to slip a note under the Bateses door."

"What does the note say?" Mrs. Hughes inquired, almost afraid to know.

"Just that neither of them are expected to report for duty tomorrow, but they're welcome to join us for Christmas luncheon."

"You sent him just now?" Mr. Carson wanted to know. It was rather late and he'd have to stay up to lock up after the lad returned.

"No, it were just after I left you, but the girls have finished in the kitchen and I wanted to tell you before I went up. He should be back any moment." The backdoor opened. "Speak of the very devil."

"Then I guess we can all go up now," Mrs. Hughes exclaimed. As much as she wanted to spend more time with Mr. Carson, she knew they were playing with fire. It was best to let their passions cool a bit overnight.

Mr. Carson left to lock the backdoor. Mrs. Hughes straightened a few papers on her desk hoping Mrs. Patmore would leave also, but she did not. Mrs. Hughes felt Mrs. Patmore's eyes on her. Mrs. Hughes hoped that her face was not as flushed as it felt.

After locking the backdoor and his office, Mr. Carson loitered at the bottom of the stairs until the women joined him.

"Are you waiting to escort us up the stairs, Mr. Carson?" The cook teased. "I think we know the way."

"You've been drinking, Mrs. Patmore," he replied. "I want to make sure you don't take a wrong turn."

Mrs. Patmore laughed raucously at that. "You sleep in a bathtub _once_ and the world won't let you forget."

The three senior staff climbed the stairs together; a tipsy cook followed by a housekeeper and butler almost equally intoxicated but by other means. They did not speak until they came to the landing where Mr. Carson's path would deviate from the women's.

"Good night, Mrs. Patmore," he said.

"G'night, Mr. Carson," the cook slurred in return and continued to climb.

"Good night, Mrs. Hughes, and Happy Christmas." His hand briefly covered hers on the banister.

"Very happy so far. Good night, Mr. Carson," she winked at him before following Mrs. Patmore.

TBC...


	14. A Better Man

Upstairs in the bathroom Charles Carson prepared for bed in a euphoric state. He hummed to himself as he wet his head and toweled some of the pomade from his hair. He couldn't believe his good fortune. Mrs. Hughes loved him. She would soon be his wife. Could life be any more perfect?

When he was down to just his shorts and vest he considered his reflection. He stepped back so he could see more than just his shoulders and face.

Admittedly, he wasn't what he had been in his youth, but he didn't think he was too far gone. His shoulders were not as broad as they had once been but they were still broad. He'd acquired some girth but he carried it with dignity. The mussed hair on his head was as much grey as black but at least he still had a full head of hair.

_Not bad for your age, Charlie boy,_ he thought, sucking his gut in a little and turning to the side. Still, he wondered that the years had done this to him when they'd only made Mrs. Hughes more beautiful.

The thought of her, his fiancé, made him smile. Instantly, the man in the looking glass looked twenty years younger. He even saw a little spark of the rebellious spirit that had caused him to stray from service for a time. He saw the cocky confidence that had made him the ideal footman when he'd returned from the stage. His confidence had waivered in the years since the war. The world seemed determined to leave him behind. All the changes, coming in quick succession had unsettled and frightened him, but the constancy of her friendship had seen him through every crisis.

Now, her promise made the future something for which to yearn rather than something from which to run. She awakened feelings and dreams in him that he'd long thought dead.

_And what do you do for her?_ His conscious asked. He frowned in answer.

She'd agreed to marry him. There must be something he offered her that no one else could. Charles hoped that she felt that she'd received similar support from him through the years, but it was hard to imagine. What _had _he done for her over the years that could compare to all she'd given him?

He sometimes took her side when Mrs. Patmore was being unreasonable. More often than not, he acted as a neutral observer. Much less often, he acted as reluctant mediator in their conflicts. He'd been caught between the hotheaded cook and the fiercely resolute housekeeper more times than he cared to remember. No, he'd not been much help on that front.

He'd tried to lessen her load when she was dealing with her potential illness. He'd only succeeded in upsetting her. A chill passed through him. Charles did not want to dwell on memories of that time.

Recently, he'd offered words of encouragement as she worried about Anna and Mr. Bates, but he couldn't be sure how much comfort she'd derived from his empty platitudes. Charles felt ashamed for not being more caring towards her. She deserved better than a gruff curmudgeon for a husband. Comforting and nurturing were not words Charles would ever use to describe himself, but it was not beyond his power to change that.

He locked eyes with his reflection resolutely.

He'd held back his feelings and his affection for too long. If he wasn't too old to find love, he wasn't too old change for the woman he loved. How long had she pressed him to be kinder; not just to her, but to everyone?

_She agreed to marry you and Mrs. Hughes does not suffer fools, so you can't be completely hopeless, _he reminded himself. _She must see something in you, mate. Prove her right._

He would start tomorrow by apologizing to Mrs. Patmore.

As he passed the bathtub on his way out of the bathroom, he smiled to himself. Even though he would have to eat crow in the morning, he was rather proud of having put Mrs. Patmore in her place by reminding her of the bathtub incident. If he lived to be a hundred years old, he would never forget that morning.

_A frightened hall boy had been sent to wake him before six. Unable to discern what the lad was saying, Mr. Carson had allowed himself to be led to the bathroom. There, he found all the hall boys and footmen standing around the bathtub. As he approached, he saw that the newly promoted cook was sleeping cozily in the tub. She'd made a nest using what looked like every towel from the hamper._

_Surrounded by the hall boys, she'd looked like a scene from a Christmas panto featuring Snow White. Or she would have if Snow White snored like a hibernating bear. Or if they'd woken Snow White by poking her with a shoehorn and she'd awoken with a bloodcurdling scream._

_Mrs. Patmore had panicked as several of the boys attempted to hold her down, fearful that she was likely to hurt herself getting out of the tub in such a state._

_At a loss for what to do, Mr. Carson had been grateful when he heard the door between the women's and men's corridors unlock. _

_'I heard a scream,' Elsie had said, bustling into the men's bathroom without a second thought. Taking in the scene in an instant, she'd put her hands on her hips and frowned down at the confused cook. 'Ah, there she is. Thank goodness she's alright.'_

_'That's a rather optimistic assessment,' Mr. Carson had grumbled. Elsie ignored him._

_'Poor Candice has been looking for you since five, Mrs. Patmore.'_

_'No need to shout,' Mrs. Patmore had winced and covered her eyes._

_'She can't stay here,' Mr. Carson had pointed out. 'My lads need to get ready for their day.'_

_'Of course. If I could have a moment with her in private, Mr. Carson, I believe I can get her out of your way.'_

_With one gesture, Mr. Carson cleared his lads from the room. 'Please be quick about it, Miss Hughes. Much more delay will disrupt everyone's schedule.'_

_'Understood, Mr. Carson,' she'd nodded as he closed the door._

_Thirty seconds and a few loud splashes later, Miss Hughes and a wet-headed Mrs. Patmore had emerged from the bathroom. _

_'Thank you, Elsie,' he'd said as she passed by supporting most of the weight of an angry and still disoriented cook. He was genuinely impressed by her calm and efficient demeanor. She'd been head housemaid for less than five months. She was only standing in as housekeeper while Mrs. Curtis visited her ill sister, but she was acquitting herself very well. 'I don't know what we would have done if you hadn't come to help.'_

_'What are friends for?' she'd answered back with a quick smile. He wasn't sure if she was saying she was his friend or Mrs. Patmore's. 'Happy Christmas, Mr. Carson.'_

Over twenty years later, he could still picture it. It probably wasn't the first time she'd smiled at him, but it was the first time he noticed her dry wit and sparkling eyes.

He reached his room and climbed swiftly into bed. The hour was late and he did not want to be tired and cranky tomorrow. After pulling the bedclothes up to his chest, Charles ran his thumb across his cheek where she had touched him earlier. His skin felt icy and hot at the same time. His lips felt very much the same as he remembered pressing them to the softness of her hand.

As much as Mrs. Patmore's interruptions had annoyed him, she had probably saved them from crossing the line of propriety. He took a deep, steadying breath. Today's events had been overwhelming on so many levels. He'd been hopeful in the morning, but actually securing her promise and exchanging pledges of love with Mrs. Hughes had exceeded his every expectation.

The immense relief and joy that he felt had been nearly impossible to contain. Maybe tomorrow he would be more accustomed to the passions rising up within him. Maybe tomorrow he would have better control over his impulses to touch her, his need to kiss her. He doubted it very much.

TBC...

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><p><strong>AN Just a short one from his POV. Next update, her POV of the night after.**

**Also, I've added a little more to the Beryl bathtub incident (since you guys seemed to like it). I'm done with it for now, but I'll flesh it out in an epilogue after we're done with our two old boobies. **


	15. Grateful Reflections

"Goodnight, Mrs. Hughes," the red faced cook said as she began to open the door at the top of the stairs.

"Goodnight, Mrs. Patmore," Mrs. Hughes replied. "And Mrs. Patmore?"

"Yes?"

"For the record, that is the bathroom you are entering, not your bedroom."

"I am well aware of that, Mrs. Hughes," Mrs. Patmore glared at her grinning friend. "For your information, I was going to make water and clean my teeth."

Judging by the confused look on Mrs. Patmore's face, Mrs. Hughes wasn't sure she believed her friend's assertion but allowed Mrs. Patmore to save some shred of dignity by leaving her unchallenged.

"I certainly count myself lucky," Mrs. Patmore slurred slightly as she opened the door.

"Why is that, Mrs. Patmore?"

"With friends like yourself and Mr. Carson about, I'm in no danger of ever forgetting my most humiliating moments," she chuckled good naturedly.

Mrs. Hughes laughed as Mrs. Patmore winked and disappeared into the bathroom, shutting the door firmly behind her. Mrs. Hughes walked down the hallway towards her own room and towards the locked door which separated the men's and women's dormitories. How easy it would be to silently unlock that door and slip into her fiancé's room unseen, she thought. She knew from years of sharing a wall that he usually prepared for bed in the bathroom while Elsie preferred using the basin and pitcher of water in her room for her evening washing. If she were quick about it, he would find her waiting for him when he returned to his room.

_'An' then what, lass?'_ Elsie asked herself. '_Even if you were still fully dressed and all you wanted was to see him to say a private goodnight, it would be inappropriate enough to drive Mr. Carson into a panic. If you dared to ask for a goodnight kiss, you'd probably scare the poor man back into the 19__th__ Century.' _

She smiled to herself wryly and the key remained on its hook beside the door. Mrs. Hughes retired to her Spartan bedroom. So much had happened since she left her room this morning. There had been plenty of changes for one day. There was no reason to rush things. She would be content with how things stood at the moment. Elsie leaned back against her door, cast a grateful look heavenward and gave thanks for the miracle God had wrought.

Stepping further into the room, she removed her dress and corset with practiced alacrity. As she prepared for sleep, Elsie chuckled over Mrs. Patmore's traditional festive overindulgence. Elsie hadn't thought of her first Christmas at Downton in years. How nervous she'd been while covering for the absent Mrs. Curtis. She was still adjusting to Downton and Mr. Carson had intimidated her despite being an improvement over the last butler under whom she'd worked.

Downton had been quite different from her experience at Thirlestane Castle. The house was grander than Downton in many ways, but it had been a bleak place to work. As at Downton, standards were high, but unlike Downton, the family were rude, demanding and unappreciative. These attitudes were reflected by Mr. Wilson and Mrs. Morrison, the grim butler and dour housekeeper, who distrusted and schemed against each other constantly. Caught in their petty sabotages and machinations, the staff were treated more like slaves than servants.

The only consolation was that the wages were above average. Elsie had applied herself, learned a lot and done well, but she knew there was no future for her there. Even if she'd wanted to stay on, the head housemaid was only two years older than Elsie and she was the butler's niece. It was understood by all in the house that she was destined to be the next housekeeper.

Even with her eventual succession all but guaranteed, Veronica Wilson had been jealous of the clever and well-liked Elsie. For the three years Elsie worked at Thirlestane, Veronica and Mr. Wilson had joined forces to ensure Elsie Hughes understood her place in the household. Mrs. Morrison had not been cruel to Elsie, but neither had she ever gone out of her way to defend her most capable maid.

None of the upper staff ever complimented Elsie's consistently exemplary work. If she erred, which was rare, it was broadcast across the household, upstairs and down. More often, she was made the scapegoat for Veronica's mistakes and laziness. Elsie had been deeply unhappy throughout her tenure there. She wanted out, but she needed the money to send home and couldn't quit. Leaving for another position in service would have been difficult without a positive reference, which she seemed unlikely to receive.

Her dissatisfaction with her circumstances had been the main reason she'd been vulnerable to Joe's first, tentative advances. She'd met him six months before she left Thirlestane. After enduring constant censure and disapproval, hearing Joe's kind compliments on her half days had been like an oasis in the desert to Elsie.

As the courtship advanced, Elsie had made up her mind to accept Joe when he asked for her hand, if only to escape her predicament at Thirlestane. She knew he would be asking soon. Joe was a widower with a young son. He was in need of a wife with a steady disposition and strong work ethic; a woman like Elsie. Elsie was certain that he would be willing to welcome her sister and mother into his household if he believed that Elsie would be a good wife. She'd already dropped hints about her mother but she would not tell him about Becky unless absolutely necessary.

Before Joe could ask Elsie to marry him, however, Mrs. Morrison told Elsie of an opportunity in Yorkshire. Elsie was surprised by this kindness as Mrs. Morrison had never shown any signs of liking Elsie in the least. Still, Elsie had been grateful and had jumped at the chance to escape her prison.

Joe had proposed to her the day she left for Downton. She still remembered the conversation as they walked amongst the headstones at Melrose Abbey.

_'You needn't go to Yorkshire if you don't wish it, Elsie,' he'd said, kicking at a clod of dirt._

_'I have to go, Joe. I cannae abide Veronica and her uncle much longer. There's no future for me at Thirlestone.'_

_'That doesn't mean there isn't a future for you here.'_

_'What are you saying, Joe?'_

_'Would you consider staying for me? I've grown awfully fond of you, lass.'_

Fond. That was the word that exactly suited what she'd felt for Joe. If there had been anything more, she might have accepted him that day. As it was, fondness was all she ever felt for him.

_'I'm to start at Downton Abbey the day after tomorrow, Joe. There's a garden party in less than a month. They're in dire need and I've given my word that I will be there.'_

_'Surely you can come back after you've seen them through the garden party,' he'd scoffed. Obviously, he didn't think much of such things. _

_'Hiring and training staff is a lot of work. I'd need to work there at least six months to feel that I've not misled and inconvenienced them.'_

_'I can wait six months for your answer.' His tone hinted that he wouldn't wait much longer than that. He was clearly hurt that she hadn't jumped at the chance to marry him, but he endeavored to put a brave face on it. He wasn't ready to accept that he'd wasted the past six months courting her. _

Hedging her bets, Elsie had come to Downton to evaluate her potential future remaining in service. If it offered prospects as barren as Thirlestane, she would tell Joe about Becky and, if his offer still stood, she would accept him. Elsie was ashamed to remember how pragmatic and calculating she'd been about Joe.

Upon her arrival in Yorkshire, Mrs. Curtis, the Downton housekeeper, had taken an instant interest in Elsie. Under an attentive and supportive hand, Elsie's skills of organization and leadership had flourished. She found her work fulfilling in a way she'd forgotten existed. Then, less than five months since her arrival, Mrs. Curtis called Elsie into the housekeeper's sitting room.

_'Elsie, I've just received news that my sister is very ill. Her Ladyship has granted me leave to help nurse her. I've assured her that you can very ably fulfill my duties in my absence.'_

_'How long will you be gone?'_

_'I don't know. She's quite ill. It may be several weeks.'_

_'You'll be gone over Christmas?' Elsie almost panicked at this news._

_'Perhaps, but I trust you can manage it. Christmas is very much like any other day. There are a few traditions to observe, but Mr. Carson can guide you through those.'_

_When it was clear that Elsie did not find this as comforting a thought as Mrs. Curtis had intended, the older woman asked, 'Is there a problem between you and Mr. Carson, Elsie?'_

_'No. Not really, I just don't think he'll welcome the prospect of having to train me.'_

_'Mr. Carson will welcome whatever Her Ladyship orders him to welcome,' Mrs. Curtis insisted. 'Besides which, training new staff is part of what the butler and housekeeper do.'_

_Elsie was still unconvinced. _

_'You don't require training; you only require a little instruction. Mr. Carson won't mind.'_

_'I'm not so sure about that.'_

_'Well I am. Shall we call him in and ask?'_

_'No!'_

_'You're not afraid of Mr. Carson, are you Elsie?' The housekeeper had asked with a kindly smile._

_'Perhaps a little,' Elsie had admitted. 'Mostly I'm afraid of letting the house down and disappointing you both. I would hate for standards to be lowered in your absence.'_

_'But I must go. I am sure things will run just as smoothly as ever while I am gone.'_

_'I shall try, but you and Mr. Carson work so well together. He trusts you.'_

_'And he has no reason to distrust you. So long as you don't give him a reason, he'll give you every chance to succeed. He won't want to inconvenience the family so he will give you whatever assistance you require. He is a consummate professional.'_

_'Of course he is; I didn't mean to imply otherwise.'_

_'If it will put your mind at ease, Elsie, I shall let you in on two little secrets about Mr. Carson,' the housekeeper said conspiratorially. 'I know people think Mr. Carson is a hard task master, but the person he is hardest on is himself. Whatever standards he expects of the staff, he expects even more from himself.'_

_Elsie nodded. This was not a secret to the observant Elsie Hughes. 'And the second secret?'_

_'If there is time at the end of the day, offer him a glass of sherry. He's much more reasonable over a glass of wine.' _

_'In my experience, alcohol makes people less reasonable,' Elsie quipped._

_'Too much alcohol, yes, but a nip of sherry is not too much for a man Mr. Carson's size,' Mrs. Curtis assured the reluctant head housemaid. 'I'll tell Mr. Carson that I've given you permission to use my sherry decanter and glasses while I'm away.' _

Elsie had filled Mrs. Curtis' shoes naturally and had found Mr. Carson to be very helpful and not at all resentful of her ignorance of Downton traditions. He was actually rather proud to be passing them on. It helped that Elsie never needed to be told anything twice. Mr. Carson invited her to join him for tea some afternoons when they needed to discuss things without the staff as an audience. Though things were comfortable between head housemaid and butler in Mrs. Curtis' absence, Elsie had not been brave enough to invite Mr. Carson for sherry until after the Cook in the Bathtub incident.

A few days later she'd wanted to talk to him about how much leeway to give the staff, particularly Mrs. Patmore, on New Year's Eve and she'd invited him for a sherry. They'd resolved the main issue easily and had spent the rest of the evening talking about literature, Scotland and the trials of running a large house. It was the first time she'd seen him smile and the first time she'd seen a glimpse of the man behind the butler. It had only been a fleeting glimpse, but it was enough for her to know that she wanted to know more about that man.

Mrs. Curtis returned just after the New Year but the housekeeper's sister never fully recovered from her illness. By the end of the year Mrs. Curtis had left Downton to care for her sister as well as her sister's husband and family. Elsie had become Mrs. Hughes instead of Mrs. Burns. She had inherited Mrs. Curtis' sherry decanter and glasses. The rest, as they say, was history.

Elsie heard Mr. Carson's door open and close just as she was drying her face. The feet of his bed scraped slightly as he climbed in. Elsie doused her light and lay down in her own bed. She replayed his sweetly insecure proposal and his disarmingly honest avowal of love in her mind over and over again; first one and then the other.

She brushed where he'd kissed the back of her hand with her fingertips, trying to recapture the thrill of feeling his lips there. With a watery smile she remembered the moment they'd both leaned in for the kiss that hadn't come. His lovely face was a mixture of confusion, fear and desire. No doubt he was confused by the emotions stirring inside him brought on by this wonderful development in their relationship; she certainly was. She could see that he was fearful of committing any impropriety in the time between their engagement and their marriage.

Tonight, his desires had almost overcome his innate sense of propriety. She was sure they would have kissed if Mrs. Patmore hadn't returned. She'd seen her own longing reflected in his dilated eyes. Elsie knew that he wished to kiss her but it was now up to her to give him permission and encouragement to do so. Having escaped such a close call, he would be more vigilant against his compulsions. Mr. Carson would never do anything beyond kissing her hand unless he understood how much she welcomed something more and maybe not even then.

How could she tell him that she wanted him to kiss her without coming across as a wanton woman? She worried.

_But he would never think that of you,_ her mind told her. _He knows you and respects you too much, lass. _

_Respect; such a simple word for such a complicated idea,_ she thought. One's personal concept of respect was almost as complex and individual as one's definition of Love.

_The two feelings are more closely related than the poets tell you,_ she reflected. _It is possible to respect someone without loving them, but impossible to love without respect. _

Respect was what she found at Downton. Respect earned through hard work and competency. Respect from a stern but fair-minded butler with high standards. Respect from a man she respected. Respect that in time had turning into Love from the man she loved.

Elsie slowly realized that was crying; not the hot tears of anger or pain, but warm tears of joy and thankfulness. She smiled into the darkness and once again gave thanks for the narrow and winding road that had brought her to this happy moment. The way ahead might not be any clearer or easier, but she would not be walking it alone.

TBC…

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><p><strong>AN Sorry for the long delay. This chapter wanted to be so many things; it was hard to contain it. Next update…the morning after.**


	16. Christmas Morning

Christmas morning finally dawned over the rooftops of Downton but most of her inhabitants had been active well before sunrise. Mrs. Hughes had heard Mr. Carson leaving his room well before five in the morning, which was typical for a Christmas. It was Downton tradition that the family's annual descent from their sleepy rooms to the cache of presents beneath the tree take place under the watchful eye of the butler.

Each year Mr. Carson would later give an account of the scene to Mrs. Hughes and Mrs. Patmore. When the girls were young he would vividly describe the frenetic tumble of limbs and pulled hair that rolled down the stairs as Nannies and a very sleepy Cora admonished them to act like little ladies. As the years rolled on, the young ladies matured and the hair pulling lessened, though it never completely disappeared. After the girls were grown and even during the somber war years the family kept up the tradition of rising early to see what Father Christmas had left. Family gifts were opened as the morning wore on, but the unwrapped offerings from jolly ol' St. Nicholas were the main source of excitement for the children.

The past few Christmases had witnessed the return of childlike wonder to the event. Just last year Mr. Carson had relayed the story of Miss Sybbie, having apparently awoken her little cousin and snuck him out of the nursery beneath Nanny's nose, patiently letting Master George back his way slowly down the stairs, one excruciatingly slow step at a time. By the time George had reached the first landing Sybbie was dancing on the spot with anticipation. Mr. Carson had intervened and carried the lad down the last of the steps. Her familial obligation thus discharged, Sybbie was finally free to explore the delights under the tree. While George toddled unsteadily towards the tin trainset, his cousin had skipped off in search of the tea set she'd requested of Father Christmas via the letter her father had written.

_'Christmas just makes more sense when there are children in the house,_' Mr. Carson had concluded. Mrs. Hughes and Mrs. Patmore had smiled at each other, both suspecting there was no child at Downton that anticipated Christmas half so much as the man seated before them.

This Christmas morning Mrs. Hughes took her place at the breakfast table humming a carol. She smiled thinking of the day ahead. She wondered if the butler, _her butler_, was in as joyous a mood as she was. She smiled at Mr. Carson's place which sat empty beside her. She knew he'd already eaten a quick meal of bread and jam before heading up to the grand hall to await the family's arrival. It was less breakfast than that to which he was accustomed but Mrs. Patmore would remedy that. There would be a rasher of bacon and a boiled egg along with the scones laid out with the mid-morning tea the three heads of household traditionally shared on Christmas. After his appetite was appeased, Mr. Carson would regale them with to tale of this morning's events. Elsie was anxious to hear how Marigold fared on her first Downton Christmas.

Her happy thoughts were interrupted by Andrew and Mr. Barrow joining the company at table.

"I wonder what's gotten into Mr. Carson," Thomas commented as he sat down. "Mrs. Hughes, do you have any idea what's happened?"

"I expect it's just the Christmas spirit," she answered, hiding a smile behind her tea cup.

"Well, if it's a Christmas spirit, it's the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come," Thomas quipped. "He's in a foul mood and no mistake."

"A foul mood?" Mrs. Hughes asked in wonder. "Are you sure?"

"Not that he'd let the family see, but he cornered poor Andy here in the upstairs pantry and lit into him for forgetting the sugar spoon."

"That were my fault," Daisy said, bringing a fresh batch of toast to the table and setting it in front of Andrew. "I asked him about Christmas in London while he were filling the sugar bowl. I'm sure it just distracted him."

Andrew smiled gratefully up at her.

"It doesn't signify who was at fault. It was a storm in a teacup," Thomas shrugged. "I just used one of the tea spoons and no one noticed."

"Mr. Carson noticed," Andrew reminded him.

"Even for Mr. Carson, that's splitting hairs," the under butler noted.

"And on Christmas?" Mrs. Patmore put her oar in as she came in search of Daisy. "That's not like him." She looked at Mrs. Hughes, a question in her eyes.

Mrs. Hughes shook her head and frowned. This report from upstairs was unsettling. What could have put him on edge like that? For the briefest moment she thought it might be a sign that he was regretting his proposal, but she dismissed that notion at once. His feelings and intentions were genuine, of that she had no doubt. Something else had upset him. If this year held to form, it would be at least another hour before he came down and she could get to the bottom of this mystery. Until then, she must carry on as usual and hold fast to the surety that Mr. Carson loved her, no matter how grumpy he might be.

-00-

Charles Carson stood beside the hearth in the Grand Hall. The fire and the lit tree cast the only light on the silent scene before him. He loved this calm before the chaos of Christmas.

He smiled to himself as remembered the noise and activity in the hall the night before that had concealed his words as he leaned down to ask her, _'Is now a good time?'_

Mrs. Hughes had been startled by his words, he could tell, but she recovered quickly. He'd almost succeeded in rendering her speechless with his offer of marriage.

_Almost,_ he chuckled.

Mr. Carson's experienced eye ran over the pile of presents under the tree. Lady Grantham had placed most of the family presents beneath it several days ago. The expensive paper and bows needed time to be appreciated before they were torn away, discarded and forgotten.

The unwrapped gifts from Father Christmas had been added by the hall boys after the last of the guests departed last night. Master George's pop gun lay propped beside a broomstick pony ready for many a hunt. Miss Sybbie had also received a pony and a large, stuffed rabbit. Little Miss Marigold was too young for a broomstick pony, but Father Christmas had left her a colorful set of blocks and a polka dot rubber ball.

Yes, everything was prepared and as it should be. Mr. Carson spared a quick, sad glance to the spot in front of the hearth where Isis had waited beside him for over a decade of Christmases. Her first Christmas she had almost run off with the set of fur-lined slippers Lady Grantham had bought for His Lordship. By next Christmas there would be a new dog in front of the hearth.

_There might be a new butler as well,_ he thought with a frown. He wanted to stay on at Downton after marrying Mrs. Hughes, but it wasn't up to him. The cold truth was he was as replaceable as the dog in the grand scheme of things. The house and the family would carry on no matter what happened to Charles Carson.

_And a Happy Christmas to you too,_ he chided himself. _You really are acting like an old booby. This should be one of the happiest days of your life. _

Activity on the gallery saved him from his melancholy thoughts. Whispered voices echoed in the vast hall. Mr. Carson could discern at least two distinct voices, but neither sounded like children. Indeed, one voice was far too deep to be anything but a man's voice.

"You're sure they won't mind?" The man asked.

"Of course not. They won't begrudge you what everyone must experience at least once in their lives," his companion answered.

"What's that?"

"Being the first down on Christmas morning to see the gifts beneath the tree," Lady Rose informed her husband. For it was indeed Mr. Atticus and Lady Rose who now appeared at the top of the stairs.

Giggling with anticipation, Rose pulled her curious husband down the stairs after her. They were both still wearing their nightclothes and gowns.

"I think Father Christmas has left you something," she pointed towards the tree.

"For me?" Atticus sounded amazed. He followed Rose to the tree and looked where she was pointing. A new, felt hat was perched on top of a stack of wrapped gifts.

"I hear every banker in New York must have a hat just like this," Lady Rose said proudly.

"However did Father Christmas know?" He asked with a grin.

In their teasing, neither had noticed Carson standing by the fire. Hoping to avoid any embarrassment, the butler lightly cleared his throat.

"Oh, Carson!" Lady Rose started but recovered swiftly. "We were just coming down in hopes of catching Father Christmas on his rounds."

"I'm afraid you've just missed him," Carson returned, his face betraying nothing. "I asked him to stay awhile, but he's very busy this time of year, you understand." It was the pat answer he'd given all the Downton children at one point or another.

Rose was delighted by this answer and by the confused look on Atticus' face. Just then, a door was heard upstairs.

"That's the nursery door, My Lady," Carson informed her. "The children will be here soon. Might I suggest that you step just here?" He indicated a column behind which they could both hide but which would offer a view of the staircase.

Lady Rose and Mr. Atticus hid just as the top of Sybbie's head bobbed into view. They could see that she was running back and forth along the gallery.

"Hurry, Georgie," she called to her cousin.

"Where's baby?" George asked. His tiny hand appeared on the bannister and he was now visible between the stanchions.

"Auntie E will bring her soon," Sybbie reasoned. Apparently she'd learned her lesson about waiting for babies to slow her down. "Come on! Let's see if he's come."

George's head peeked around the railing at the landing. "He's still here," George whispered in an awed voice.

"That's just Carson," Sybbie laughed at her gullible young cousin. "He guards the presents after Father Christmas leaves them. Happy Christmas, Carson."

"Happy Christmas, Miss Sybbie, Master George."

Carson's reassuringly familiar voice gave George the courage to climb down the last few steps and approach the tree. Within half a minute he and Sybbie were chasing around the Grand Hall on their ponies.

Shortly, Lady Edith appeared on the stairs carrying Marigold. The child's eyes were big with wonder as she sucked noisily on her fingers.

"Good morning, Carson," Lady Edith greeted him.

"My Lady," he bowed.

"I see we've missed Father Christmas again," she joked.

"Not by five minutes," he assured her. This revelation brought Sybbie to a sudden halt and George crashed into the back of her. They tumbled down in a laughing pile. Marigold clapped at the scene and wriggled to be let down. She quickly discovered the ball and was soon occupied chasing after it before rolling it to George who would gallop by on his might steed and kick it back to her.

The noise in the hall slowly roused the sleepers in the family rooms. Slowly the adults filtered down in various states of sleep. Lady Rose and Mr. Atticus came out from their hiding place to join the fun. The children thought Mr. Atticus looked quite funny in his fine hat and his night clothes. Lord Grantham looked as though he might be regretting his enthusiastic fall from the wagon the night before. Carson rang for a refreshment cart.

"Are all of these gifts for Sybbie?" Mr. Branson wondered as he saw the small mountain upon which the stuffed rabbit sat.

"Papa thinks if he gives her enough toys, you won't be able to pack them all and you'll be forced to stay," Mary teased.

Lord Grantham held his head and grumbled something incoherent. The earl smiled weakly as he tried to enjoy the children's enthusiasm but failed. Though not hung over himself, Carson felt his own mood beginning to echo that of his employer.

Andrew arrived with the cart laden with all manner of pastries. The cart also had coffee and tea for the adults as well as warm milk and cocoa for the children. Carson frowned as the cart passed by. A teaspoon was set beside the sugar bowl and the sugar spoon was nowhere to be seen.

_Ah, well, these things happen on Christmas,_ Carson reminded himself. It was early, after all. It was still well before seven and it was unlikely any of the footmen had even had time to eat. Mr. Molesley was on second duty and would relieve Andrew and Mr. Barrow after eating his breakfast.

_At least the Dowager isn't here yet, _Carson consoled himself_. Still, it must be addressed. The loss of standards is a slippery slope and I mustn't let a sugar spoon be the first step down that slope._

Water and headache powder were waiting at the ready in the upstairs pantry should His Lordship request it. Anticipating Lord Grantham's need, Carson sidled up beside him and discreetly offered to fetch the headache powder.

"I think it will take something stronger this morning, Carson," Lord Grantham frowned.

Carson understood perfectly and nodded. He headed into the library to fix a whiskey and water for the ailing earl. It would be more water than whiskey.

"I thought I could use a bit of quiet as well," Lord Grantham said as he entered the library. He took his drink from Carson and headed towards a settee. Flopping unceremoniously onto the plush furniture, Lord Grantham drank deeply of his curative. Knowing that Mr. Barrow and Andrew were watching over the rest of the family, Carson remained to wait on His Lordship.

"It's happening again, Carson," Lord Grantham moaned.

"My Lord?"

"He's taking her away again," he said simply. "This time for good."

Carson nodded his understanding.

"I've tried to understand. I know it's what Tom feels is best, but…" He waved his empty glass. Carson took it and began to prepare another drink.

"It's not easy, Carson. She's our only connection to Lady Sybil. It's like…like…"

"Like losing her all over again," Carson finished as he handed Lord Grantham his newly filled glass, again, more water than whiskey.

Robert looked up into Carson's deceptively placid face. For the briefest instant they were equals in their pain and frustration. They were as powerless now to stop the inevitable as they had been when Branson had taken Lady Sybil to Ireland to be his wife. They were as useless now as on the night Lady Sybil was torn from them.

"Exactly," Lord Grantham agreed.

"Then might I suggest, My Lord, that you enjoy the time you do have left?"

"You're right, Carson. If this is to be her last Christmas, I don't want to miss a moment of it." Quickly downing his drink, Lord Grantham, known to his grandchildren as 'Donk', fortified himself to head bravely back into the fray.

"At least I know that you'll never desert me, Carson, and I believe I'll take that headache powder now," Lord Grantham sighed.

With His Lordship's words still echoing in his ears, Mr. Carson removed to the upstairs pantry to prepare the headache powder. For the first time, the butler began to worry about how his news would be received by the family. Would His Lordship consider it a betrayal? Would they be turned out on the spot?

"Happy Christmas, Mr. Carson," Andrew said cheerily as he came to refill the coffee urn.

Andrew's glib and casual manner proved the proverbial straw on the camel's back.

"Happy Christmas?"

"Yes, Mr. Carson," the stunned footman stammered.

"Do you suppose yourself on holiday, Andrew?"

"No, Mr. Carson," Andy replied haplessly.

"Did Mr. Dunlop let standards slip at Christmas at your previous house, Andrew?"

"No, Mr. Carson."

"I didn't think so. Would you kindly explain the absence of a sugar spoon on the trolley?"

"I'm sorry, Mr. Carson. I must have left it in the kitchen when I was filling the sugar bowl," Andrew admitted. "Mr. Barrow caught it just as we were coming into the room. I don't think anyone noticed. It was Mr. Barrow's quick thinking that saved the day."

Mr. Barrow happened to come into the pantry at that moment.

"Well, hail the hero of the hour," Mr. Carson said sarcastically. "What a brilliant stroke of genius to exchange a teaspoon for a sugar spoon. They're practically the same thing. Why don't we just start using bouillon spoons for everything? It would certainly simplify things and I'm sure no one will ever notice."

Thomas knew better than to respond but Andrew felt the need to defend himself.

"I didn't say…" Andrew began to argue but Mr. Carson's glare stopped him in his tracks.

"Mr. Barrow might not always be there to cover for you. You need to have an eye for details in this job. I took a chance on you, Andrew. Have I made a mistake?"

"No, Mr. Carson."

"Need I remind you that your Happy Christmas depends upon the good will of your employers?"

"No, Mr. Carson."

"They expect the same service today as every other day."

"Yes, Mr. Carson."

"Then I suggest you save your 'Happy Christmas' for your own time and focus on doing your job."

"Yes, Mr. Carson."

With that, Mr. Carson exited the pantry carrying the headache cure for His Lordship on a silver tray. He regretted his words immediately. That was not how he'd planned to handle Andrew's tiny faux pas. It was hardly an infraction deserving of such a dressing down but he could not take back his words without appearing soft. Still, he knew he should say something encouraging to the lad before too much time passed. Unfortunately, Andrew and Mr. Barrow had been relieved by Mr. Molesley by the time Mr. Carson he returned the tray and glass to the pantry.

To make matters worse, Mr. Carson knew that Thomas would waste no time in telling all the staff that Mr. Carson was on a rampage. What would Mrs. Hughes think when she heard that? Would she think his mood was a related to her? Stuck upstairs, Mr. Carson could only hope that she knew his heart better than that.

He glanced at the clock. In an hour or so the children would be ready for naps and the adults would finally dress for the day. Then, he could seek her out and assure her that he was merely being a sentimental old booby.

TBC...

* * *

><p><strong>AN Chelsie is canon on this side of the pond now! Yippee!**

**This 'Downton children on Christmas morning' interlude was largely inspired by a review from Chelsie Fan. **

**Eventually, life will settle down and I'll find time to read and review all the lovely Chelsieness that happened last month (and is still going on in many cases). I'm not desperate enough to wish to be snowed in, but I'm getting awfully close.**

**For now, please know that I value your reviews and will try to reply.**

**ETA... In Downton Downstairs code Toast equals Love.**


	17. About Last Night

Mrs. Hughes swiftly climbed the backstairs to the family rooms. Not wishing to overtax Madge on Christmas, Mrs. Hughes had decided to take Anna's place as Lady Mary's maid. Unfortunately, this meant that Mrs. Hughes would have to wait even longer to speak to Mr. Carson. She tried to put the mystery of the grumpy butler to the back of her mind as she entered Lady Mary's room.

"Ah, Mrs. Hughes. Mr. Carson mentioned that Bates was returned. He said you'd given Anna the morning off but he didn't tell me who to expect."

"I hope you don't mind, My Lady." Mrs. Hughes went directly to Lady Mary's wardrobe. She knew that Anna would have hung this week's clothes in order so it would be easy to know which dress to prepare.

"Not at all," Lady Mary said flippantly as she considered her own reflection in the dressing table looking glass. "Actually, this gives me an opportunity to discuss something with you."

"What is that, My Lady?" Mrs. Hughes couldn't think what Lady Mary might want of her. It seemed clear that there was nothing more the two women could do for Anna or Mr. Bates.

"Carson."

Mrs. Hughes froze briefly before turning towards the dressing table holding the day's dress. Lady Mary was watching her very closely. "What about Mr. Carson?" She hoped her voice sounded steady.

"I heard him barking at poor Andy this morning, which I find surprising."

"I understand that Andrew left the sugar spoon in the kitchen. You know how Mr. Carson demands perfection."

"Still, the dressing down sounded very severe for such a small infraction. Carson could have been more lenient, seeing as it is Christmas."

"You'll have to discuss that with him, My Lady," Mrs. Hughes said in what she hoped was a suitably respectful but dismissive tone.

"Carson usually enjoys Christmas. In fact, I thought he looked particularly chipper last evening." Mary's eyes never left Mrs. Hughes' face.

"The party went very well. I'm sure that pleased him and he always enjoys hearing Your Ladyship sing," Mrs. Hughes tried to flatter. The comment did catch Lady Mary's interest.

"Yes, Carson has always been one of my greatest fans," the young woman agreed. "Even when I was young and didn't like being the center of attention."

_Was she ever that young?_ Mrs. Hughes thought wryly.

"I know it's hard to believe, but I haven't always enjoyed notoriety," Lady Mary smiled as if she could hear the housekeeper's thoughts.

"I used to hate it when Grandmama would make me sing for her friends," Mary admitted. "I don't think she knew what else to do with me. She's never exactly been comfortable around children. She still looks at George as though he's a wild animal that might bite her."

Mrs. Hughes smiled appreciatively at the joke and hoped Lady Mary was done discussing Mr. Carson. She was not.

"It was Carson who taught me not to be afraid of the audience," Mary continued to speak conversationally as she approved the items Mrs. Hughes was presenting for her inspection. "I would look to him if I felt nervous and he would always have a reassuring smile for me."

Lady Mary paused as if she expected Mrs. Hughes to say something. When the older woman remained mum, Mary gave a small smirk. Mrs. Hughes randomly wondered if Lady Mary knew about Mr. Carson's years on the stage. Lady Sybil had known. Perhaps she had confided in her sisters.

"You really think my singing put him in such high spirits?"

"I know he favors that carol," Mrs. Hughes lied._ Which carol had it been? _She racked her brain to remember.

"And did _you_ enjoy my song, Mrs. Hughes?"

Alarm bells were ringing in her mind. Mrs. Hughes felt backed into a corner and reluctantly answered, "Of course, My Lady. It was quite a treat."

It was a calculated risk to embellish her lie. It was a mistake.

"But Carson didn't stay to listen, did he, Mrs. Hughes? Nor did you," Lady Mary accused.

"My Lady?" Mrs. Hughes knew she was caught.

"You don't think that I would notice when my biggest supporter is missing from the audience?"

"Perhaps you just didn't see him," Mrs. Hughes tried one last time.

"Carson is very hard to miss," Mary said with a knowing smile. "I noticed that his biggest supporter was missing as well. And when you returned together you both looked very pleased."

Mrs. Hughes cursed herself. She'd been naïve to think no one would notice the change between the heads of house. Still, she would not break Mr. Carson's confidence. This was not how they'd planned to tell the family. They hadn't even had time to discuss what they planned.

"What are you implying, My Lady?"

"Nothing improper, I assure you, Mrs. Hughes. This is Carson we're talking of," Lady Mary answered. "You don't have to tell me everything, but don't insult me by denying that something happened between yourself and Carson last night."

The room filled with a palpable silence as the two women engaged in a battle of wills. Lady Mary remained seated but Mrs. Hughes felt as though she were being stared down upon.

"I'm not sure what you want me to say, My Lady," the housekeeper finally broke the silence, admitting defeat. She had no choice but to place herself at Lady Mary's mercy. The only comfort Mrs. Hughes could find was to remind herself that Lady Mary was the only other person in the world who loved Mr. Carson half as much as herself.

"Just promise me you won't break his heart," Lady Mary said in a soft voice very unlike her usual confident tones.

Mrs. Hughes just shook her head. _Never,_ she thought.

"The sapphire earrings, I think," Lady Mary said, changing the subject as though they'd just been discussing the weather.

With Mrs. Hughes' assistance, Lady Mary was dressed for the day in a thrice.

"Will that be all, My Lady?" She had last night's frock draped over her arm.

"Yes, and I can make do with Madge until Anna returns."

She'd almost reached the door when Lady Mary spoke to her again.

"Mrs. Hughes?"

"Yes, My Lady?"

The two women locked eyes again, but it was not a fight that Mrs. Hughes saw in Lady Mary's face now; it was an entreaty.

"Please don't take him away too soon. I've only just accepted that Mr. Branson is leaving."

Mrs. Hughes had no answer to this request so she bowed slightly. With her heart beating audibly in her chest, Mrs. Hughes made her escape.

-00-

"…And another thing," Beryl continued in her litany of the many ways Mr. Carson had wronged the staff. It had started with Andrew, but now Mr. Carson was being subjected to every transgression he'd committed in twenty odd years. She stood over him as he ate silently at his desk. "Do you honestly think anyone cares if the water goblets don't match the glasses for the pudding wine?"

Mr. Carson pushed another scone into his mouth to keep from answering. He wanted very much to ask Mrs. Patmore how many times she'd yelled at his footmen because a course reached the table thirty seconds later than she'd intended. He didn't see the difference, but he trusted her expertise as a cook and took her word that the meal would be ruined otherwise. He doubted she would believe him if he explained that guests would indeed notice if the crystal pattern changed mid meal and they would make assumptions about the family based on the change. It would appear that they were just using a hodgepodge of partial sets of crystal. The guests would assume that the family could not afford the full set of crystal or that the family did not value the guests enough to use the 'good' settings. No, a cook wouldn't understand that so Mr. Carson kept his peace.

Mr. Carson told himself there was a potential upside from this dressing down. Perhaps if he took his lumps from Mrs. Patmore, Mrs. Hughes would go easier on him. He continued to eat while Mrs. Patmore continued to scold. Mr. Carson was grateful at least that Mrs. Patmore had still prepared him a hearty mid-morning meal. When he'd seen the scowls that awaited him downstairs, he wondered if he would ever be allowed to eat again.

Mrs. Hughes had already gone up to attend Lady Mary by the time Mr. Carson was freed by Lord Grantham. His Lordship had not been satisfied with Mr. Carson's simple proclamation that Mr. Bates had returned. Despite many assurances that there were no further details to be had, Lord Grantham had questioned Mr. Carson for almost a quarter hour after the ladies had returned upstairs to dress.

"To yell at a nice lad like Andy over a teaspoon on Christmas!" Mrs. Patmore was less animated than before. Her rant was finally running out of steam. She looked over Mr. Carson's shoulder. He turned to see the housekeeper standing in the doorway. "I mean, I ask you, Mrs. Hughes. Have you ever seen the like?"

"At least it was over something important," Mrs. Hughes said seriously.

Mr. Carson looked suitably abashed as he wiped his face and placed his napkin over the empty plate. With both women present, he thought it was time to attempt to explain himself even if he could not defend his actions.

"Yes, I overreacted, I admit it." His hands flew up in a gesture of futility. "I let myself get too caught up in wanting to ensure that Miss Sybbie's last Christmas at Downton is perfect."

"You thought an incorrect spoon was going to ruin a four-year-old's Christmas?" Mrs. Patmore demanded.

"Ruin is too strong a word," Mr. Carson protested. "Missing some little detail like that might mar the day. What if the Dowager were there? She would have said something and it would have put Lady Grantham on edge and children pick up on things like that."

"That excuse is flimsier than Aunt Fanny's wig," the cook persisted.

"Mrs. Patmore!" Daisy came rushing in. "The meringue won't set! I think there's oil in the bowls."

"Then wash them or get a fresh bowl and start again, you dozy girl! Do I have to do everything?" Belying her words, Mrs. Patmore followed the flustered Daisy back to the kitchen.

Left alone, Mr. Carson quickly reached out and grabbed Mrs. Hughes's hand fiercely. He stared adamantly at her. "I can't really explain why I exploded at the lad, but please be assured that it has nothing to do with us."

"The thought had crossed my mind, but I believe you," she assured him.

"Thank you," he sighed in relief.

"I must admit, when Mr. Barrow said you were in a mood this morning, I flattered myself that it was a good mood," Mrs. Hughes told him, trying to hide her confusion behind her wit.

"I assure you that I awoke this morning feeling happier than any morning of my life," Mr. Carson insisted. "Christmas or otherwise."

"Then what happened?"

"Mrs. Patmore will be back any second." He released her hand and looked towards the door. "Can we talk later?" He could not admit all of his hopes and fears to her when Mrs. Patmore's return was imminent.

"Just tell me before she comes back," Mrs. Hughes insisted.

"I'll try. I started thinking about how this was Miss Sybbie's last Christmas at Downton," Mr. Carson said quickly. "Which made me start to wonder if it were my, that is our, last Christmas here and then Lord Grantham…"

"Have you gotten the truth out of him yet?" Mrs. Patmore asked as she strode back into the room.

_I would have done if you could give us some privacy,_ Mrs. Hughes thought bitterly. What she said was, "He just woke up on the wrong side of his cave this morning."

Mrs. Patmore scowled at this non answer.

"Why Mr. Carson was such a Scrooge this morning is less important than what he is going to do to fix it," Mrs. Hughes declared.

"I'll make it up to the lad, Mrs. Patmore, I promise," the contrite butler swore.

"And what about the rest of the staff?" Mrs. Patmore demanded. "By yelling at Andy, you've put everyone on edge, Mr. Carson. On Christmas."

"I'll think of something," Mr. Carson looked to Mrs. Hughes for help.

"Don't worry, Mrs. Patmore. I've got a few ideas." Mrs. Hughes smiled at Mr. Carson in a manner that made him most uncomfortable. "You will do exactly as I say, Mr. Carson."

He nodded with a frown.

"And you will do it with a smile," she added.

Mr. Carson gave a feeble grin that was more of a grimace.

"That's worse than before," Mrs. Patmore exclaimed; a smile beginning to bloom on her face. She was looking forward to watching Mrs. Hughes put Mr. Carson through his paces.

"It will have to do, I suppose," Mrs. Hughes shrugged. Her stern façade cracked at his injured expression. "Now here's what you are going to do…"

TBC...


	18. Like Fine Wine

After receiving his instructions from Mrs. Hughes, Mr. Carson called Mr. Molesley to the butler's pantry. Mr. Molesley passed Mrs. Patmore on her way out of the pantry.

"Mr. Molesley, would you please take young Walter to the cellar and bring up the crate marked 'CC3'?"

"Which crate, Mr. Carson?" Mrs. Hughes asked from beside his desk.

"Oh, alright! 'CC2' then," Mr. Carson changed his order reluctantly.

"Did we bring up the wrong crate earlier?" Mr. Molesley asked, obviously terrified at having made a mistake. Last night they'd brought up the crate clearly marked 'Xmas'.

"No, Mr. Molesley, you brought the correct crate, but I've been reminded that we are a larger party this year and we might want more wine," Mr. Carson tried to reassure the anxious footman, even giving him a small smile. "Just bring the crate here. There are a few select bottles I thought people would enjoy today."

Mr. Molesley nodded feverishly and took off as soon as he was dismissed. It always made him nervous when Mr. Carson smiled at him like that.

"Why not bring up crate number one?" Mrs. Hughes inquired after Molesley left them alone again.

"Because that wine is intended for a very special occasion," Mr. Carson informed her. "And the staff will be drinking it soon enough."

Mrs. Hughes blushed with understanding. _'Soon'_, she thought. _He said 'soon'._

Mr. Carson smiled at the affect his words had on her. It felt good to know that he was not completely powerless today. Even if she was calling the shots, he had the ability to keep her slightly off balance. It might well be his only solace in a day which promised to be rather trying.

-00-

A subdued staff gathered in the servant's hall in preparation of going up to receive their gifts from the family, most of which had been bought and wrapped by Mrs. Hughes.

"Before we go up," Mr. Carson said solemnly. "I wanted to inform you that today's luncheon will commence immediately after the family dismiss us and you will not have to resume your duties until half past four."

A happy murmur rippled through the room. This was an additional hour and a half. Mr. Carson remembered to smile and it appeared almost genuine.

"Consider this a reward for an exemplary year of service. You have _all_ met or exceeded our expectations of excellence." Mr. Carson looked pointedly at Andrew. "Mrs. Hughes, Mrs. Patmore and I are very proud of what we've accomplished together this year and we are proud of you. I hope you are as proud of yourselves."

Mrs. Hughes and Mrs. Patmore nodded their agreement.

Just as Mrs. Hughes had hoped, this praise raised the collective spirit of the household and the unpleasantness from the morning began to fade in their memories. By the time the staff returned downstairs with their presents, they were chattering happily about their gifts and the extra time off. Andy's dressing down was all but forgotten.

At luncheon, Mr. Carson himself opened the bottles and poured the first round of wine. He tried to explain that the first wine was one of His Lordship's favorite vintages and they were drinking some of the last bottles in Yorkshire, but the excited staff drowned him out.

Defeated, Mr. Carson took his place at the head of the table once all the glasses were filled. He could not help but scowl at the scene. Light pressure on his foot made him turn to the woman on his right. She gave him an exaggerated smile, reminding him what he was supposed to be doing. Mr. Carson gritted his teeth and smiled.

"You're not very convincing," she teased him.

"They're drinking the aught eight like it was Old Tom gin," he groused as two hall boys slurped at their wine heedless that they were drinking roughly three months' worth of their salary.

"But they're enjoying it, which is the point."

"They'd have enjoyed the cheaper wine just as well," Mr. Carson argued, still smiling in painful insincerity.

"Take your medicine, Mr. Carson," Mrs. Hughes said kindly. "And just keep smiling. If you relax, you might actually have a bit of fun."

Her hand briefly brushed across his hand as she reached for the platter of Brussell's sprouts. This simple touch took the last bit of fight out of him. The sooner he accepted his penance, the sooner it would be done, he reasoned.

"I'll try," he promised as she spooned some sprouts onto her plate and then some onto his.

-00-

With the extra wine and time, Christmas luncheon was leisurely and festive. The staff were quite boisterous throughout the meal, emboldened by the smiling butler at the head of the table. Thankfully, none of them looked too closely at his smile. Mr. Carson was trying valiantly to enjoy himself, but he could not keep from fixating on the under appreciated wine. He looked at every spill as though it were blood on the table. He nearly lost his composure completely when he saw one of the maids spooning sugar into her glass.

As the last of the Christmas crackers popped around the table, the briefest hint of gunpowder wafted through the air and was gone. Mrs. Hughes donned her paper crown when the flaming pudding arrived and helped Mrs. Patmore secure her own paper hat over her cap. Both women stared at Mr. Carson expectantly.

"Surely not," he scoffed.

The women's collective gaze did not falter. Mr. Carson swept the candies away from his hat and picked it up. It was a triangular sailor's hat.

_I should at least wear a crown, _he pouted to himself and looked around. All the crackers and hats were claimed. Mr. Carson opened his hat and placed in on his head as though it were a crown of thorns. In the process, he mussed his hair and several curls were pushed down onto his forehead by the silly paper hat.

At this delightful sight Mrs. Hughes gave him a sappy smile. _My God, I'm going to marry this man, _she reminded herself gleefully.

"Happy?" Mr. Carson asked sardonically. When he saw the look on Mrs. Hughes face, however, his sarcastic smile was replaced by a rakish smirk.

"Ecstatic!" Mrs. Patmore declared. "Now for the real show."

"Must I?" Mr. Carson entreated Mrs. Hughes.

She observed the staff. They were joyous and festive. Mr. Carson had made reparations. She could not force him to complete this last task if he found it too humiliating. Still, she very much wanted him to do it. She was sure it would not be as humiliating as he anticipated.

"Please," she requested gently.

If she had demanded, he might have been able to refuse her, but she'd asked so sweetly. _How can I say 'no' to her?_

Mr. Carson was resolved. He looked up the table to where Andrew was chatting with Mr. Barrow.

"Andrew," Mr. Carson said in a low voice. No one heard him. He cleared his throat loudly and called up the table in a bellowing tone, "Andrew!"

The table fell silent at once. Mrs. Hughes began to think this was a bad idea. Mr. Carson might undo all the good he'd done thus far.

"Yes, Mr. Carson?" Andy asked, valiantly keeping any tremble of fear from his voice.

"I have something I need to ask you."

"Yes, Mr. Carson?"

Mr. Carson looked down at the table in front of him. Digging once more through the candy from his cracker, the butler picked up a tiny piece of paper.

"How did the snake describe his favorite joke?" He read from the slip of paper.

No one at the table could believe what they were witnessing. Mr. Carson was going to tell a cracker joke. Somehow Andy maintained his composure well enough to answer, "I don't know, Mr. Carson. How _did _the snake describe his favorite joke?"

Mr. Carson looked at the punchline and rolled his eyes. He took a deep breath and, like a man falling on a sword, completed the joke. "Hyssssssterical."

Groans, giggles and guffaws erupted from the staff. The festive atmosphere returned and laughter filled the room. A few people patted Andy on the back as congratulations for his bravery.

"Do you think someone was actually paid to write that?" A bemused Mr. Carson asked Mrs. Hughes, who was biting her lip to keep from going into hysterics herself.

"If so, I hope they didn't pay them very much," she answered mirthfully.

Mr. Carson laughed a sincere laugh as he leaned in to ask, "Am I forgiven, Mrs. Hughes?"

"Completely, my Cheerful Charlie."

He looked around to see that no one had overheard her comment before he accused her. "You're enjoying this, aren't you?"

She nodded cheekily. "So will you, if you let yourself."

Beneath the table, she took his hand. Mr. Carson beamed at her lovingly. "After pudding do you suppose you could spare me a moment of your time…in private?"

Mrs. Hughes squeezed his hand and nodded. Then she startled Mr. Carson by standing suddenly. For a brief instant he thought, hoped, she was about to drag him back to her sitting room, but she dropped his hand.

"Mr. Branson!" Mrs. Hughes exclaimed.

The entire staff stood, including Mr. Carson, as Tom entered the hall holding Sybbie's hand.

"Please, I don't wish to disturb you. Sybbie and I just wanted to come down and say our goodbyes in case there isn't another chance. I knew you would all be here."

Everyone sat back down. Tom and Sybbie made their way around the table shaking hands and giving out hugs respectively. Sybbie sat on Thomas' lap for a bit and Mrs. Hughes thought she saw the under butler wipe at his eyes as the little girl left him.

When they had made their way completely around the table, Mr. Carson pulled a spare chair from the corner and set it up between his place and Mrs. Hughes'. Tom sat down and turned to Mrs. Hughes.

"Things are likely to be hectic in the next week and I wanted to have some time to properly thank you for everything you've done for me."

As her father spoke to Mrs. Hughes, an exhausted Sybbie stood beside Mr. Carson's chair looking up at him curiously. It was as though she wasn't sure she recognized him. Realizing that he still had the hat on his head and probably looked very silly, Mr. Carson took it off and set it on the table. At this, Sybbie smiled and surprised the butler by crawling up into his lap. She nestled into his arms sleepily. Mr. Carson knew that she'd fall asleep immediately unless he distracted her.

"Have you had a good Christmas, Miss Sybbie?"

"Mmhmm," she hummed before yawning dramatically.

"You must be very tired," Mr. Carson said sympathetically. "You've been up since very early this morning."

"But I still missed seeing Father Christmas," she pouted.

"Just."

"We're going to Boston," she informed him seemingly out of the blue.

"Yes, so I've heard."

"Carson, will Father Christmas be able to find me next Christmas?"

"Of course," Mr. Carson said with conviction. "In fact, I told him this morning that you would be in Boston next year, but I think you should write to him, just in case."

"Do you know anything about Boston?"

"I only know that they make their tea with salt water," he answered.

"Yuck!" Sybbie made a face at the very idea.

"Just the once," Tom assured his daughter, giving Mr. Carson a small frown.

"Will you come visit us?" Sybbie wanted to know. "Thomas says he'll come with Donk."

"Does he now?" Mr. Carson wasn't sure he liked Barrow's assumption, but he wasn't about to argue with the child.

"He's been to New York. Have you?"

"I've never been to America, nor am I likely to," Mr. Carson told her honestly. "A butler stays with his house, but I shall be here when you want to come back and visit us."

"I'd like that," Sybbie nodded.

"You must be very excited about Boston," Mr. Carson urged.

Sybbie shrugged. "Thomas says I'll make lots of new friends in 'Merica." The child sounded dubious.

"I'm sure you shall, Miss Sybbie."

"Nanny says old friends are best." Sybbie's eyelids were growing heavy.

Mr. Carson saw it was fruitless to try and keep her awake so he rocked her slightly as he answered in a low, soothing, almost hypnotic voice, "Nanny is right; old friends are the best friends, but they can't become old friends without being new friends first."

Amid the hubbub and noise of the servant's Christmas luncheon, Sybbie drifted off to sleep in Mr. Carson's arms. The old butler smiled down on her with a lump in his throat. He raised his head to see Mr. Branson and Mrs. Hughes watching him.

They had been watching him for some time. Tom observed how easily Sybbie melted into the butler's arms. She looked safe and confident there. Tom thought of Sybil's stories of the gentle giant who had watched over her childhood.

Tom was convinced that going to America was the right thing for him and for Sybbie. He knew saying goodbye would be hard, but he had not fully realized how difficult it would be for the people they were leaving behind.

Tom's relationship with Mr. Carson had been a rocky one to say the least. Mr. Carson had never fully accepted Tom's ascendance, but they had reached a balance. As patriarch of the downstairs, Mr. Carson's acceptance was important to Tom, second only perhaps to that of Lord Grantham himself.

After his experience with Stowell, Tom understood how much Mr. Carson had eventually gone out of his way to treat Tom as one of the family. It was Tom's attempt to be part of two worlds that Mr. Carson had trouble accepting. He could relate to Tom as one of the family or as one of the staff but he had difficulty doing so simultaneously.

"It's not too late to change your mind," Mr. Carson said, only half joking.

"Don't you start. I'm having enough trouble with Lord Grantham and Mary," Tom teased, trying to conceal the unexpected emotions rising in him.

"Looks like she's ready to be taken back upstairs," Mrs. Hughes urged. "Thank you for bringing her down. I'm sure everyone appreciated the opportunity to say goodbye."

Mr. Branson and Mr. Carson stood. Mr. Carson handed Mr. Branson his sleeping daughter.

"I wish you both the best of luck in America," Mr. Carson said coolly.

"Thank you, Mr. Carson," Tom smiled back. He shifted Sybbie so he could extend his right hand to the butler. Mr. Carson considered for a moment before he took the younger man's hand and shook it solemnly.

After Mr. Branson left with Miss Sybbie, Mr. Carson sat down to his pudding in silence. Mrs. Patmore updated Mrs. Hughes on her latest trials with the Kelvinator but the housekeeper was ever mindful of the pensive man to her left. His encounter with Miss Sybbie had obviously affected him deeply. Maybe his actions this morning really were about his sadness about seeing Miss Sybbie leave.

"I'll be in my office," Mr. Carson announced as he stood suddenly. When the staff started to stand as well, he waved them back down. "Carry on, everyone. And Mr. Barrow, I will oversee the family's tea."

With that curt announcement, Mr. Carson was gone. Mrs. Hughes barely heard the end of Mrs. Patmore's story as her thoughts followed him into the butler's pantry. She was about to follow when Mrs. Patmore let out a happy squeak.

"Mr. Bates!"

Sure enough, Mr. Bates and Anna stood in the entrance to the servant's hall. As happy as Mrs. Hughes was to see the reunited couple, their timing could not have been worse. Mrs. Hughes wanted desperately to speak to Mr. Carson, but she would be expected to stay and greet the prodigal son. If she left, people would notice and she could not be obvious about going to Mr. Carson.

"Welcome back, Mr. Bates," Mrs. Hughes said with as much enthusiasm as she could muster. Forced to delay comforting Mr. Carson, Mrs. Hughes tried to focus on Anna's happiness for the time being. By the time things calmed down in the servant's hall, Mr. Carson had already gone upstairs to serve the family their afternoon tea. When the staff dispersed to enjoy one last hour of freedom, Mrs. Hughes retired to her sitting room with one last glass of wine.

TBC…

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><p><strong>AN I'm sure you were expecting something more extreme as a punishment, but I think watching the staff drink his good wine was pretty bad. He couldn't apologize directly to Andy, but he could make it clear that there were no hard feelings. Someone suggested that Carson actually juggle for the staff, but I don't think he would do that, no matter how much trouble he was in.**

**I tried to research when they started putting those terrible jokes in Christmas crackers and couldn't find a date. [though I did find some pretty terrible jokes]**

**Next update they will FINALLY get to have a proper talk about their future.**


	19. Alone at Last

Mrs. Hughes was too restless to wait for Mr. Carson to return from serving the family tea in her own sitting room. After a few fruitless minutes at her desk trying to reconcile the latest batch of receipts, she gave up and went to the kitchen in hopes that Mrs. Patmore would prove a distraction. The cook, however, was in no mood to entertain having found two of her kitchen maids sleeping off the afternoon's libations at the servant's table.

"It will be a miracle if I get anything useful out of them for the rest of the day," Mrs. Patmore groused.

"Most of the work is done already," Mrs. Hughes comforted. "I can lend you a girl if you need it."

"No thank you. She'd be more trouble than help."

"Perhaps a pot of coffee then?" Mrs. Hughes suggested.

"If they can stay awake long enough to drink any, that might work," Mrs. Patmore agreed. "Daisy! Let's start a pot of coffee and see if we can revive these sleeping beauties."

"Will you have time to exchange gifts before dinner?" Mrs. Hughes asked as Daisy scampered off.

"I should have a lull right around half six."

"Very good. I'll let Mr. Carson know."

"About Mr. Carson," Mrs. Patmore dropped her voice. "Do you think we were a little hard on him earlier?"

"Sharing his wine was more traumatic than I'd expected," Mrs. Hughes admitted. "But don't you worry about Mr. Carson, he'll be fine."

Mrs. Patmore shrugged as if she weren't convinced any more than Mrs. Hughes by the housekeeper's assertion. Mrs. Hughes gave her friend a wan smile and walked through to the servant's hall. The two kitchen maids weren't the only staff lounging at the table nursing the beginnings of headaches. This development would not improve Mr. Carson's mood. Gently, Mrs. Hughes urged the ailing maids and hall boys to drink a headache powder and lie down in their rooms.

"It won't do to let Mr. Carson see you laying about," she warned.

Ultimately, Mrs. Hughes settled into a chair beside the hearth in Mr. Carson's pantry. This way she would be certain of seeing him as soon as he was done serving tea. She stared into the little coal grate and mused on the past twenty four hours. She still felt a thrill when she remembered that she was engaged to marry her dear butler, but the reality of their lives had dampened that feeling. He loved her as she loved him. Her world would never be the same, but her dreams of the night before were struggling to survive in the cold light of day.

There were many things Mrs. Hughes would miss about the house and staff, but she could happily walk out the door this instant and never look back if he were with her. It was clear that Mr. Carson would have a much harder time letting go of Downton. Her assumption that they would marry soon might well prove to be a pipe dream. She needed to prepare herself for that possibility.

Mrs. Hughes thought about her conversation with Lady Mary earlier. How casually the girl, for so Mrs. Hughes would always consider her, had thrown an impediment into the path to happy matrimony for the heads of staff. Mrs. Hughes wondered if she should tell Mr. Carson what Lady Mary had said. It would influence him, she had no doubt. Even Mr. Branson had mentioned how Mary had delayed his own leaving with her constant pressure to stay.

Anger rose up in Mrs. Hughes' breast.

_How dare that minx tell me not to break Mr. Carson's heart? That's rich, coming from a woman who treats men like her personal play things, _Mrs. Hughes fumed. _ And if anyone has broken Mr. Carson's heart since Alice, it's been her. She never considered for a moment how he agonized over going to Haxby._

Mrs. Hughes had sat in this very chair as Mr. Carson told her he would regret leaving Downton every moment of every day. Would he still feel that way leaving? He'd been willing to leave for Lady Mary. _Will he be willing to leave for me? _She believed he would, but would she be selfish enough to ask him to?

_'And don't take him away too soon!' What did she mean by that? How long does Mary expect him to stand by to prop up her inflated sense of importance? _

While struggling with these thoughts, Mrs. Hughes heard an unmistakable baritone in the kitchen. She held her breath as his steps led away from his office door and towards hers. She waited patiently until he finally returned to his office.

"There you are," Mr. Carson smiled as he opened the door to find her beside his fire. "Mrs. Patmore says we're to exchange gifts at half six."

"So I've been told."

"I was worried when you weren't in your office." He shut the door behind him, resisting the urge to lock it. It would never do for Mrs. Patmore to find the door locked twice in so short a time. She would begin to suspect something.

"Worried?"

"I was hoping we could catch a few moments together," he clarified. "It feels as though we've hardly seen each other." He sat down in the chair opposite her. The chairs were close enough that their knees almost touched.

"We spent all of luncheon together," she reminded him, though she understood what he was saying.

"It's not the same," he insisted and held a hand out to her.

"No, it's not," she agreed and took his hand.

"Happy Christmas, Mrs. Hughes," he smiled wearily.

"Happy Christmas, Mr. Carson," she returned. His hand was warm and soft in hers. They sat silently for a short time, just enjoying being alone together. Mrs. Hughes broke the easy silence. "I wanted to say that I am sorry for suggesting you share your good wine with the staff."

"That was a suggestion? I'd hate to see a command," he quipped.

"Yes, well," she blushed at his teasing. "I wanted you to see that people enjoying Christmas was more important than a sugar spoon. The lad was chatting with Daisy and left it in the kitchen. These things will happen on Christmas morning."

"Chatting with Daisy?" Mr. Carson asked in disbelief. "Are we going to have to go through that sort of thing again?"

"It's nothing like the business with Alfred, don't worry," she assured him. "Any way, I want you to know that I really did think they would appreciate the gesture more."

"I'm not sure if they appreciated the wine, but they certainly drank enough of it."

"I know that wasn't easy for you to watch. Please believe that I didn't realize how bad it would be for you," she admitted. Her thumb stroked soothingly over his knuckles.

"Did you see…?" He couldn't even finish the sentence but gestured as if he were stirring tea.

"The sugar? Yes. I'm so very sorry you had to go through that, but I have some news that I hope will cheer you up," she said hopefully.

"I saw. Mr. Bates is back. Wonderful." Mr. Carson did not sound very enthusiastic.

"That isn't my news," Mrs. Hughes corrected him. "The truth is…the three bottles of the aught eight you opened were the only wines we took from your special crate. All the other wine was what you'd previously set aside specifically for Christmas."

"They didn't drink it all?" Mr. Carson sat up at this happy information.

"I wouldn't let them do that even if I thought they would notice the difference but it was necessary for you to think it for a time," Mrs. Hughes told him. It did her heart good to see how he cheered at her confession. "In fact, half of the third bottle is secured in my sitting room for us to enjoy this evening at our leisure."

Mr. Carson took her hand in both of his and leaned happily towards her. "Mrs. Hughes, I will never question you again."

"If only I could believe that," she kidded him.

"I shall to remember that you are as wise as you are beautiful," he gushed.

Her face flushed furiously red at this blatant compliment. She stammered for a reply but had to settle for staring shyly at her own feet.

Mr. Carson found her sudden shyness endearing. "Have I embarrassed you? Surely I've told you before…"

"No. Never," she whispered.

"Are you sure I haven't slipped up even once? I think it every day, so it would be remarkable if I haven't told you accidentally."

"I definitely would have remembered that," she said, regaining her composure.

"Well you are beautiful and now that I am free to say so, you had best become accustomed to hearing it," he informed her.

"Get away with you," she said with a small, enchanting giggle.

"I won't go away, Mrs. Hughes," he said very seriously, though his eyes were twinkling with promised mischief. "The flip side of me being stuck with you is that you are stuck with me."

"Oh dear, I clearly didn't think this through," she responded in a mock serious tone to match his.

"It's too late to back out now. We have a verbal contract."

"I should hate for you to sue me for breach of contract."

"And I would," he joked.

"That won't be necessary, Mr. Carson. I'm sure we can negotiate something between ourselves," she said suggestively.

"I hope so," Mr. Carson rejoined. "Mr. Murray is busy enough as it is."

They held hands and laughed for a bit, enjoying the miraculously uninterrupted moment.

"It's good to see you back in the Christmas spirit," Mrs. Hughes sighed as she watched him laughing quietly. "I don't wish to press, but can you tell me what really upset you this morning? It wasn't a spoon and it wasn't just Miss Sybbie."

"His Lordship was miserable this morning," Mr. Carson began.

"Not surprising considering how much he drank last night," Mrs. Hughes interjected.

"He was more than a little depressed about Miss Sybbie leaving. And who can blame him?"

"America will be good for Mr. Branson and for Sybbie," Mrs. Hughes argued.

"She's going to grow as a middle class Irish American when she could have been an English debutante," Mr. Carson frowned. "She'll be surrounded by displaced Irish who hate the English even more than the Americans. She'll be taught that her mother's family are tyrants or, at best, snobs."

Mrs. Hughes couldn't argue with that. She didn't want to point out that perhaps being raised as a spoiled rich girl wasn't what was best for Sybbie. She would have a hard time making Mr. Carson see the wisdom in that.

"When she does come back, she'll look at all of this and find it repulsive and ridiculous. The worst thing of all is that she won't understand who her mother was. She won't respect how her mother was raised."

"I'm sure Mr. Branson won't let that happen," Mrs. Hughes tried to comfort him.

"He may try, but he'll fail. He doesn't understand who Sybil was, not completely. He can't tell Sybbie about her mother's childhood. Which were her favorite songs and books. What games she played and where she liked to hide in the garden. He's taking her away from that connection to Lady Sybil. How can Miss Sybbie understand Lady Sybil without knowing Downton?"

"I don't have an answer for that, but I do know that Mr. Branson will do his best to remind Sybbie of her mother's roots," Mrs. Hughes reasoned. "And I'm sure the family will travel to visit them often."

Mr. Carson nodded, trying to accept her logical answers but he wasn't convinced. What objections could Mr. Branson have against raising his daughter at Downton? Mr. Carson was surprised by the strength of his own reaction. He thought he'd made peace with Miss Sybbie leaving, but he had only done so by denying that it would ever happen.

"Regardless of what any of us think, they are going and His Lordship was low thinking of this as Miss Sybbie's last Christmas at Downton. He and I were in the library and he said something to the effect that it was a comfort to him to know that I would never desert him."

_Just as self-centered as his daughter,_ Mrs. Hughes thought bitterly. Only someone that clueless would characterize retiring after thirty years of service as desertion. The only thing she trusted herself to say was, "Humph."

"I knew he didn't mean that literally," Mr. Carson continued, noting her response. "I told myself that the family will adjust to a new butler so long as standards don't slip. Then I remembered the teaspoon and Andrew was so obliviously chipper…"

"You lit into him as if he'd just spilled hot soup in the Dowager Countess' lap."

"As you say," Mr. Carson finished in a dejected tone.

"I know you won't want to hear this, Mr. Carson, but when we leave Downton, there will be changes to the level of service. Standards will slip. It is inevitable. Mr. Barrow is competent, but he doesn't care about the details the same way you and I do. The staff size will continue to dwindle. As I said before Lady Rose's wedding; 'The big parade has passed by.'"

"If you're trying to make me feel better, you're not succeeding." He released her hand an leaned back in his chair.

"I do want to comfort you and make you feel better, but I won't lie to you," Mrs. Hughes said kindly. "We've had a good run here at Downton, Mr. Carson, and make no mistake."

He gave a reluctant grunt in reply before she continued.

"We've thrown our share of shindigs and a few parties that would have astounded the Prince Regent himself, but that time is fading. We can either let it pass or we can hold on and go down with the ship."

"I suppose you're right. Our best days are behind us," Mr. Carson sighed dejectedly.

"I didn't say that at all, Mr. Carson," she contradicted. "I said _Downton's_ best days are behind us. I think _our_ best days are still to come."

She placed her hand gently on his knee and smiled warmly when he looked up at her.

"And I look forward to discussing that with you this evening over a glass of aught eight, Mr. Carson," she added suggestively.

Mr. Carson's face lit up brighter than the Christmas tree upstairs. He wanted to hold her hand, but he didn't want her to remove it from his leg so he settled on covering her hand with his.

"I look forward to that as well, Mrs. Hughes," he beamed. He became minutely aware of everything in the room; the heat radiating from the fire, the ticking of the clock, the blush of her cheeks, and the smell of old ledgers and fresh ink. Above all of that, he was aware of her full, red lips as she impulsively licked them. Charles knew he was in danger of acting in an improper manner.

_Where's Molesley when you need him?_ He thought in a panic. _Or Mrs. Patmore? Anna? Daisy?_ _Anyone?_

Elsie saw his eyes focused on her lips. Her hand slid slightly up his leg as she leaned towards him. He wasn't leaning towards her, but he wasn't leaning away.

_'It's alright,'_ her smile said.

Charles swallowed his nerves and licked his lips. "Mm," he grunted, trying to form words.

"What's that, Mr. Carson?" Her voice was a Scottish purr as she leaned closer.

"Mm-Mr. Molesley," he croaked.

Mrs. Hughes sat up quickly and looked towards the doors, which were both closed. She looked at the high window into the hallway but saw nothing. Thoroughly confused she looked back at Mr. Carson who, to her dismay, was rising from his chair and heading for the door.

"What about Mr. Molesley?" She asked exasperated.

"I need to talk to him about the second, when the family are at Canningford Grange," Mr. Carson said curtly, trying to be professional again. These transitions from butler to man and back again were beginning to put a strain on him. He wasn't sure how much longer he could do it. Nor was he sure how much longer he _wanted_ to do it.

"What about the second?"

Mrs. Hughes knew all about the dinner party Lord and Lady Sinderby were throwing for Atticus and Lady Rose. Even though Canningford Grange was close enough for the family to return to Downton after the party, the family would be staying overnight. Mrs. Hughes suspected this was due to Lady Grantham's kindness rather than her preference. Both of Rose's parents were coming up from London and Lady Grantham would be mindful of leaving Lady Sinderby and Lady Rose to deal with that situation without help.

"As you know, Lady Mary and Lady Edith won't be traveling with a maid. Now that Mr. Bates is back, His Lordship mentioned to Mr. Barrow that perhaps Bates would not want to serve as valet on the night away. Mr. Barrow would be next in line to valet for His Lordship, but he claims that he had a run in with Mr. Stowell at Brancaster and would be happy to defer to Mr. Molesley."

It did not escape Mrs. Hughes' notice that this would set Miss Baxter and Mr. Molesley up for a potentially enjoyable outing together. She further suspected that Mr. Barrow was trying to do a favor for Miss Baxter, but she was too frustrated with Mr. Carson at the moment to comment.

"And you need to talk to him _right now_?" She challenged, heat rising in her voice.

"I wanted to know Mr. Molesley's view before discussing the matter further with His Lordship." Mr. Carson knew he had upset her. He knew she wanted him to kiss her, but it was up to him to protect her reputation even if she didn't want it protected. They were too vulnerable here. Anyone could walk in. The thought gave him an idea.

"I was hoping we might take the day off together and avail ourselves of the opportunity to visit our house while the family are away," he suggested as a peace offering. It worked somewhat. Her temper cooled as she considered.

_Our house. How fine that sounds,_ she thought to herself. "I suppose I could get away then."

"Excellent. I'll change the rotas right now," Mr. Carson said jovially and scampered out the nearest door.

She watched him go with a small shake of her head and a grin. _You can't run from me forever, Charles Carson,_ Elsie thought. _Especially not when I have you all to myself for a whole day. _

TBC…

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><p><strong>AN They still haven't discussed the how and when of getting married, but I think they'll tackle that over the aught eight tonight. **


End file.
